


Free As I'll Ever Be

by NotEvenCloseToStraight



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Breaking Up & Making Up, Car Sex, Feels, Fix It Fic, Flirting, Gallavich, Hurt Mickey, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Making Love, Mexico, Mickey is in Prison, Phone Calls, Phone Sex, Post 6x01, Reconciliation, Relationship Negotiations, Reunion, Running Away, Sad Ian, Secrets, Shameless, Sort Of, Texting, Top Ian Gallagher, Will Add More Specific Tags as Needed, angst and hurt, mentions of depression, pen pal au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenCloseToStraight/pseuds/NotEvenCloseToStraight
Summary: -Svetlana paid me to come-The words scorch down Mickey's throat and twist his stomach like acid, but they only hurt half as much as Ian’s muttered lie about 'waiting'.-Fuck you, Gallagher-Mickey didn’t plan to write Ian a letter but it happens anyway, an angry scribbled mess of all the ways he hadn’t known Ian fucking Gallagher would break his heart. He shoves it in the prison mailbox, breaks the pen to pieces, and walks away without a second glance.-Fuck you, Gallagher-Mickey didn’t plan to write a letter--but he can't help feeling hopeful when Ian writes him back.Sometimes truth is easier written than spoken, things that can’t be said through a dividing glass easier to whisper into smuggled cellphones and read in furtive texts when guards aren’t looking.Sometimes free means admitting to hurt and betrayal while wishing for love, and sometimes free means breaking from behind bars to say those things face to face.This is Mickey and Ian’s story: Scattered letters and secret calls, angry conversations and whispered confessions, and the journey to find themselves, each other, and somehow finally...... freedom.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 66
Kudos: 312





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: My very first (and quite possibly only) foray into the Shamelss/ Gallavich fandom. A fix it fic for 6x01-7x11 ft. our faves reconciling through letters and phone calls, a prison break and a dash for the border that ends way better than 7x11 did. 
> 
> Obligatory generic TW for canon typical angst and swearing, violence and depression, but also there is lots heart clutching fluff and sweetness and everything we love about Gallavich reunions and happily ever afters. 
> 
> Enjoy! --And please comment, because let's be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing with these two

“Svetlana paid me to come.” 

The words scorched down Mickey’s throat and twisted in his stomach like acid, but he’d only managed to look away for a second, only a split second to hide that pain and school his features before his eyes went right back to Ian’s face. 

Fuckin’ glutton for punishment, is what Mickey was. He’d sat there and stared at Ian, told him he looked good, told him about the tattoo, told him “I’ve been thinking about you” and even asked if Ian had thought about him, asked if Ian would wait for him– fuck, he’d practically _begged_ Ian to lie and say he’d wait. 

And Ian had _lied_. 

“Yeah Mick, I’ll wait.” 

Mickey wished like hell he could take comfort in the lie, wished like hell he’d just kept his mouth shut and not pushed Ian for answers the redhead wasn’t willing to give, and more than that, Mickey wished like hell he’d never fallen for some long legged, ginger haired, green eyed, innocent looking, devil smirking mother _fucking_ –

“Settle down.” The inmate in orange that stopped Mickey from punching a wall knew good and well who the Milkovich family was, who Terry had been and who Mickey was well on his way to becoming, which meant he knew good and well how much danger he was in trying to stop Mickey from doing _anything_. 

But he stopped Mickey anyway, the hand at Mickey’s shoulder not exactly kind but not quite condemning either and in a moment of near hysterics, Mickey was almost happy to see a familiar face. 

But then–

“The fuck you want?” Mickey jerked away from the touch a second too late, a quick glance at the guards the only thing that kept him from shoving the other prisoner up against the wall and threatening something–something _violent_. 

_God_ he wanted to do something violent. “Get away from me.” 

“I know it ain’t easy to see your girl and kid on the other side of the glass.” _Fuck_ , this guy couldn’t take a hint could he? “But if you can manage to not be a Milkovich for two damn minutes and keep your nose clean, it won’t be too long before you see them again.” 

“My girl and my kid.” Mickey dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and shook his head. “Manage not to be a Milkovich? The fuck you talkin’ about, my girl and my–” 

“Settle down.” the guy said again, and Mickey’s fist clenched with the need to break the asshole’s nose. “Get some pen and paper, write your girl a letter, get some of those feelings out. Prison’s got supplies on the library cart, yeah?” 

“What are you, a fuckin’ counselor?” Mickey looked the guy over with a sneer of disgust. “Tellin’ me to write letters and shit, who th’hell’s got time for that? What are you doin?” 

“I’m tryna get outta here on good behavior and having a Milkovich as my cell mate is gonna fuck that up.” Anything _friendly_ dropped from the inmate’s voice. “So get your shit together and don’t make any fuckin’ scenes, alright? I’m not dealing with lock downs and shit cos Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich is rampaging.” 

“Rampaging.” Mickey poked his tongue out the corner of his mouth and sniffed, pursed his lips and nodded. “You think so?” 

“I’m just sayin–” 

The guy wasn’t saying _anything_ when Mickey cocked back a fist and put every bit of the hurt and anger left over from Ian into shattering the asshole’s nose. 

“How’s that for good behavior?!” Mickey called as the guards dragged him away, shouting over the noise of the other man’s screams. “How’s that for a goddamn rampage, you piece of shit? You wanna write a letter about that, you mother fuckin’ piece of–” 

Solitary shut him off from the prison with the _clang_ of a heavy door and Mickey ignored the cot in the corner in favor of slumping on the cold ground, sprawling his legs out and thumping his head back against the wall.

 _Svetlana paid me to come._

“Fuck you, Gallagher.” Mickey’s voice was raw, hoarse and no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, he couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face. “F–fuck you.” 

*************

*************

The letter came a week later and Fiona handed it to Ian over dinner, faux cheerful and carefully nonchalant as she said, “Mail, Ian. Looks like a letter.” 

“Thanks.” 

Ian hated how Fiona looked at him now, all too wide eyes and practiced, consolatory smile. There’d been a time when he couldn’t tell his sister was faking, a time when Ian had honestly believed everything would be okay because Fiona assured the family everything _would_ be okay with that damn fake smile and all her talk of pulling together and making it through and how family was always the most important thing and that they would figure it out. 

There’d been a time when Ian couldn’t tell his sister was faking and a time when he’d believed everything would be okay but that time was long past. 

Now all he could see were the worry lines at the corner of Fiona’s smile, the stress in her eyes and the not quite hidden fear beneath all her words, because she said everything would be okay but Ian knew she wondered every morning if _today_ was the day Ian officially lost his mind and became another Monica. 

“You gonna read it?” 

Fiona was nosy these days too. Not that she hadn’t been nosy before, _fuck_ she’d been nosy before but now she was nosy because she was _scared_ and Ian hated that his ~~illness diagnosis~~ _issues_ had driven her to that point. 

“Uh yeah.” Ian tried for a smile, at least a little reassurance so she’d leave him alone. “Yeah. Just– just after dinner.” 

“Great!” Ian thought idly that Fiona’s face would crack if she tried to smile any harder. “That’s great. Dinner and then meds and then your letter, right?” 

“Dinner and then–” he clenched his jaw. “–then meds and then my letter. Just what the doctor ordered.” 

“Great.” Fiona said again and Ian nodded. 

… _great_. 

Dinner soon dissolved into a fight between Fiona and Debbie just like it’d done every night since Debbie had announced she was pregnant. Carl was wearing braids or–or corn rows or _something_ in his hair, swaggering around the house and barely recognizable anymore and the moment Fiona and Debbie started screaming at each other, Carl was up from the table and out the door to escape the noise. 

Lip was– where was Lip? Fucking his professor again? Dressed up like a boy toy at some fancy event? 

If Ian wouldn’t have been so numb from his pills, he would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Lip hadn’t approved of the job at the Fairy Tale or Ian’s older sugar daddies, but the lifestyle was just fine for Lip since he had a sugar _mama_? 

_Fuckin’ hell._

“Come on, Liam.” 

Everyone always seemed to forget Liam, the Gallagher brand of crazy just a little too busy for a kid too young to take care of himself, a kid too young to realize what they had was absolute shit. 

Liam watched it all with wide eyes and quiet words and somehow stayed innocent, and a sense of responsibility to _keep_ Liam innocent might be the only thing Ian felt anymore, so he scooped the baby up– _shit_ , Liam wasn’t a baby anymore, he’d be ready for Kindergarten next year, right? Right?– and carried him up the stairs to their room. 

“We don’t need to listen to the women scream, do we?” Ian tried another smile for the kid and Liam rewarded him with a big grin. “I’ll get you some headphones and you can watch a movie on the tablet, okay?” 

“Okay!” Liam chirped and Ian’s heart twisted a little in his chest. 

“Geez, it’s alright for the rest of us to be fucked, but you deserve something better don’t you?” he pressed a kiss to the top of Liam’s head and set him down in bed, opening the tablet to a kids movie and handing it over. “There you go, bud. Just um– just take it easy, alright?” 

“Thanks, Ian.” Liam settled right in to his movie, propped up on pillows with a stuffed animal clutched tight in his arms and Ian’s heart did another one of those painful little twists. 

_Innocent_. 

The letter felt light, couldn’t be more than a single sheet and Ian frowned when he saw his name and address printed in straight, neat lines, then his frown _deepened_ when he saw the prison return address stamped in the left hand corner. 

… _what_?

> _–Fuck you Gallagher._

Ian hadn’t realized his hands were shaking, hadn’t realized he’d been afraid the note was from the warden telling him something terrible had happened until he read the first words in Mickey’s barely legible scrawl. 

> _–Fuck you Gallagher. Had to pay a guard to get me this fuckin paper and I dunno why, shouldn’t be writin ya anyway._

The paper was crumpled, punctured in some places where Mickey had pressed too hard and the pen had gone right through it. 

> _– How much did Svetlana pay you to come see me? How much did it take? I’m in jail for YOU, you son of a bitch, couldn’t let that half sister cunt call the MP’s and get away with it, did that for fuckin’ YOU and you gotta be paid to come see me?_

Lines were scribbled, crossed through and x-ed out and Ian clutched the letter so tight the edges tore in his fingers as he read Mickey’s _anger_. 

> _–Now I got this dumb ass tattoo, couldn’t even spell your name right, fuckin’ stupid name is what it is, what has a Gallagher ever done that meant fuckin’ anything except fuck over each other and anyone else who got close?_
> 
> _–Gonna cut it outta my heart_

The ink ran there, had gotten wet and then smeared dry and Ian’s entire world rocked when he realized Mickey had _cried_ writing this all out. 

Mickey Milkovich had cried and that– that just didn’t seem right. Didn’t seem _possible_. 

> _–Cut you right outta my soul_
> 
> _– You’re under my skin and I hate it_
> 
> **–I hate you.**

That sentence was bolded, the letters indented because Mickey had traced them over and over, over and over and _over_ again until they were thick and black and awful, glaring out from the page and branding themselves onto Ian’s eyes. 

> _– Fuck, I don’t hate you_
> 
> _–I love you_
> 
> _– I love you and I love your crazy and you could do anything to me and I’d still fuckin’ go to jail for you._
> 
> _–I’d still kill that bitch for you._
> 
> _–I’d still sit on the other side of that goddamn glass and watch you lie about waiting._
> 
> _–and that makes me hate myself._

The last line was hurried, fading, sloppy and rushed and trailing off at the end like Mickey hadn’t meant to even write it. The bottom half of the sheet was crumpled and folded and Ian knew– he _knew_ – Mickey had started to throw the letter away, then for some reason changed his mind and sent it anyway. 

_And that makes me hate myself._

Ian hated apologizing, he hated how being bipolar made him feel like he had to apologize for even existing, for potentially being like Monica, for putting his family and friends through his bullshit. 

He hated apologizing, but as he folded the letter back up and put it away under his pillow, Ian knew there was at least one apology he had to make, even if he didn’t know how to say it, even if what he said wasn’t enough, even if he was so fuzzy these days he couldn’t trust his emotions or his heart enough to know he meant anything he said.. 

And it took a month, but Ian said it. 

It took a month, but he got his medicine balanced enough to pick up a pen and address a letter to the prison without having a panic attack. 

It took a month, but Ian wrote it down. 

It took a solid _month_ but one day mail call came around and Mickey opened red rimmed eyes and scrubbed over messy facial hair to glare at the guard who called his name. 

“The fuck you want?” he snapped, and the guard simply dropped a letter on his table and kept right on moving. 

Mickey tore at the envelope without checking to see who it was from. He didn’t give a shit anyway, it was probably someone coming after the house to finally foreclose on it and this was a notice to evacuate which made zero fuckin’ sense cos he was in prison and didn’t live in that shit hole anymore. Maybe something from INS about his whore wife or a letter from the worthless public defender who hadn’t said a goddamn word during his joke of a trial or maybe–

> _–I’m sorry._

Two words, written in bright red marker and taking up half the damn page, and Mickey’s heart skittered to a stop. 

And in tiny letters near the bottom, shaky and spindly and reading like a whisper into Mickey’s ear–

> _– My biggest fear used to be that you’d never want to kiss me._
> 
> _– I miss how easy those days were._
> 
> _– please write me back_

“Get me some paper.” Mickey said aloud to no one in particular, and the inmate to his left sent him a quizzical look. 

“What th’fuck you say?” 

“I said get me some goddamn paper!” Any other time, Mickey would have shouted but this time his voice was almost too soft, his eyes a little wet as he stared down at the too few words in Ian’s perfect handwriting. “I got a letter to write. Need some fuckin’ paper.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the story! I appreciate the comments on the previous chapter, I am trying to do these boys justice but since this is a first dip into the fandom, we’ll just have to see how it goes!

> _– What do you mean you miss how easy those days were? What days were easy?When has anything ever been fucking easy, is life at the gallagher house some magic version of easy?_
> 
> _– Nothin’ bout nothin’ is fuckin’ easy._
> 
> _~~– you don’t miss me do you~~ _
> 
> _~~–are you takin your meds~~ _

“I’m taking my fucking meds.” Ian rattled the pills around in his palm before sighing and gulping them down, following up with most of a bottle of water. “Fuck you and all your questions about my fucking meds.” 

“Hey, are you alright?” Fiona came down the stairs in time to catch Ian’s muttering, and her smile did that too big thing again, stretched and forced and Ian couldn’t believe he’d never seen how _fake_ it was before. “Talking to yourself now?” 

“Everyone in this house talks to themselves.” The pills made him dizzy, nauseous and unsteady on his feet and Ian slumped into one of the chairs, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Pretty sure it’s a Gallagher thing.” 

“Sure. Something we all got from Frank, right?” She laughed out loud and _Christ_ , Fiona was fake these days. “Talking to ourselves and alcoholism. Thanks Dad, what a great legacy.” 

“Better than Monica’s legacy though, right? Wouldn’t want to inherit _that_.” 

Fiona froze, both hands wrapped around her coffee mug, eyes huge and maybe even a little scared and Ian wished he could take it back. 

“Um.” he looked away, cleared his throat, made an attempt to sound anything other than _empty_. “Sorry.” 

“No you’re not.” Fiona took a sip of the coffee, stared down into the liquid like maybe it had an answer or two or thousand to explain anything about their fucked up lives. “And that’s– that’s okay. You don’t hafta be sorry, Ian. You’re the one that drew the short straw, right?” 

“Fuck you and your short straw. I’m the tallest one in the family.” Ian tried for a smile and Fiona’s opened up wide and blinding and _fucking fake_. 

“Yeah, you should remind Lip about that next time you see him, he needs taken down a peg or two.” Fiona ruffled at Ian’s hair when she passed and he didn’t have the energy to be annoyed at the affectionate gesture. “And write Mickey back.” 

“How do you know about–” 

“Gallagher’s talk to themselves, drink way too much and are chronically unable to keep their nose out of each other’s business.” Fiona was already half way up the stairs– _fuck_ , the pills made Ian feel three steps behind, had everything always moved this fast?. “Who else would be writing you from prison besides Mickey?” 

“Could be…” Ian frowned, tried to force himself to think. The doctor promised once the doses were figured out the fog would lift, but it had been almost two months and it still wasn’t getting any easier. “Could be um… a guard?” 

“Who are you talking to?” Carl didn’t really _talk_ anymore, everything was drawled or half slurred or half– half something. He didn’t _talk_ anymore though, not like the Carl they all knew, not like the rest of the family, not really like anyone Ian knew at all. The kid was a stranger after juvie, just like newly pregnant Debbie was a stranger and weirdly-into-his-college-professor Lip was a stranger and Fiona– what Fiona was married but sleeping with her boss or something? 

_Strangers_.

Ian didn’t know them and he didn’t know what was going on, he couldn’t find his way through the fog enough to _care_ and it took more effort than it should for him to ask, “…um, what?” 

“I _said_ , who are you talking to?” Carl pulled money from somewhere, and Ian wished he could be impressed at the sight of all the cash. But nope. He felt a whole lotta _nothing_. 

“I thought your deal with the Gallagher crazy was just depression.” Carl curled his lip and looked Ian over curiously. “Don’t remember Monica talking to herself.”

“Yeah well, you’re too young to remember lotsa things about Monica.” Ian pulled Mickey’s letter back out and spread it on the table, smoothing the crumpled edges and rubbing his thumb along the crease. “And you should be grateful for it. Was a shit show.” 

“Whatever.” Carl shrugged. “I’m out. Later.” 

“Later.” Ian gave him a half hearted wave, and tried to figure out what the hell to say to Mickey. When he’d asked ~~his boyfriend his ex~~ his _pen pal_ to write back, he hadn’t expected two and a half lines and a couple scribbled out questions. Truth be told he hadn’t expected anything cos in what universe did _Mickey Milkovich_ send letters, but the note had come anyway and now Ian needed to write something too.

He didn’t know what to say– he’d said sorry already, right?– and the pills made him so damn tired so Ian wrote the only thing that came to mind, the only thing he knew to absolutely be true no matter what the hell was going on in his life.

> _– Falling in love with you was easy_

He didn’t even bother with a new letter, just filled in a line lower on the same page and mailed it to the prison and Mickey read it over and over and _over_ in his cell. 

The words didn’t make any fucking sense and it had nothing to do with Mickey’s vision being blurry or the way his hands were shaking or the ~~sorrow sadness~~ _rage_ banging behind his temples. 

The words didn’t make any sense cos Mickey knew they weren’t _true_ and he could’a filled a goddamn binder with all the reasons he knew why those words weren’t true. 

But if Ian couldn’t be bothered to write a real letter, put any sorta effort into whatever the hell this pen pal bullshit was, then Mickey wouldn’t put any effort into it either. 

So the letter went right back to Ian– same page, different envelope, two lines scrawled on the bottom. 

> _–You never fuckin loved me._
> 
> _– You can lie about whatever the fuck you want, but don’t try and lie about that._

**************

**************

“Milkovich. You got a visitor.” 

“Nope.” Mickey was _gross_ , dripping sweat from a too hard workout, exhausted after another night of no sleep. He needed a shower, he needed a smoke, and if he thought his dick would work, he’d need to find some twink and rail ‘em till he quit seeing red hair and fucking _freckles_ every time he closed his eyes. 

“Visitor.” 

“Nope.” he said again, cos he needed a shower and a goddamn _smoke_ and he couldn’t handle seeing Svetlana and the baby and pretending he was happy about either of them in the least. 

He didn’t want to deal with her setting up sketchy jobs on the inside so she could hoard money out there, he didn’t want her too knowing stare and the way the baby was so unsettlingly a _Milkovich_. 

Maybe not even Mickey’s kid cos he knew Terry had been all over the whore before… before everything… and it had only been the one time that one day between the two of them, but the baby was a Milkovich all the same and Mickey didn’t want to see it. 

“I’m not seeing anyone today.” he said when the guard just kept looking at him. “So leave me the fuck alone.” 

“Alright, I’ll tell Tall and Ginger to get lost.” The guard waited half a beat, and predictably, Mickey’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing. “Oh look at that. Change your mind?” 

_Fuckfuckfuck_. “…Nope.” 

“Whatever.” 

> _—You wouldn’t see me?_

Mail call two days later and Mickey hadn’t slept a wink. He looked like shit even by his own estimation, had spent the last two nights trying to figure out why the hell _tall and ginger_ had come to see him, wondering if he made a mistake by staying away and then getting pissed off at himself, at Ian, at the entire goddamn _world_ for fucking him over to the point where he had to think about shit like this. 

His ‘fuck’ hand was bruised from hitting the wall, his ‘u-up’ hand still bleeding from the most recent punch and when a letter was tossed onto his bunk, Mickey just stared at it for a while. 

He had to open it– of fucking course he had to open it. Mickey was acting _pathetic_ , grasping for any thing resembling affection or even just goddamn attention from the kid he’d loved since before–

–well since before he knew a Milkovich could actually love anything at all. That’s how long he’d loved Ian, and even though the redhead had made it painfully clear over and over and _over_ that Mickey wasn’t enough, that what they had wasn’t enough, Mickey still had to open it. 

> _—You wouldn’t see me?_

Ian was _furious_ , and it bled through into every word, the ink dark and ends of letters slashed, the normal neat print scraggly and sentences running into the edge of the page. 

> _– Where the fuck do you get off telling me I didn’t love you?_

Ian was _furious_ and Mickey’s eyes blurred as he tried to read the scrawl but it wasn’t from tears– fuck you, it was never from tears– it was just sheer exhaustion, that’s all it was.

> _– How can you say I didn’t love you? I snuck around with you for ages so no one would know about us. I got you a job outta juvie so you didn’t have to work anywhere dangerous. Got it up and in you any time you wanted, tried to help keep you outta trouble with the cops even when you were being fucking stupid dealing drugs right out in public._

Mickey rubbed at his face and briefly considered just throwing the whole mess in the trash. Ian was _furious_ but Mickey was angry too and he wasn’t in the mood for jaunts down the fucked up memory lane that had been the first few years of their– their whatever the hell it was. 

> _– I mean what was so bad about me?_
> 
> _–What? I wanted you to want to hold my hand? Wanted you to kiss me? Wanted you to act like you cared half a single fuck about me?_
> 
> _– You’re saying I didn’t love you, but you were the one who always pushed me away._
> 
> _– You were the one who threatened to kill my Dad cos he saw us fucking. You were in and outta juvie and never wanted me to visit, didn’t give a damn when I did show up, didn’t care who I was with when you got up, just rolled up and acted like I should be thanking you for giving me a place to get my dick wet._

He shouldn’t have laughed right then, no way. Ian was practically raging right there on paper and Mickey was laughing because he actually had to read the words ‘get my dick wet’ and that didn’t seem right cos Ian never said things like that. 

It didn’t seem right and it definitely wasn’t funny but Mickey laughed anyway. It was nice to see anything besides _empty_ from Ian, even if the anything was anger. 

> _– You fucked that whore in front of me Mickey._

Every inch of his body went cold, any trace of amusement disappearing in a wash of dread. 

> _– Not just once but apparently enough to knock her up._
> 
> _– You beat the shit outta me cos I wanted you to admit you loved me. Then you went and married her and expected me to jump back in bed with you like it was fucking nothing. Like I was nothing._
> 
> _– I left when I couldn’t take anything else from you. I couldn’t take ANYTHING ELSE FROM YOU so I fucking left._
> 
> _– You broke me and I couldn’t handle it and now you’re gonna use that as proof I never loved you?_
> 
> _– Fuck you, Mickey._

Mickey didn’t sleep that night either. 

> _– I left when I couldn’t take anything else from you._

All he could think about was that fucked up day with Svetlana, that morning before everything had gone to shit and Ian had been laughing at him, laughing with him, hands and lips and bodies brushing and touches almost tender when they fucked and Ian had _looked_ at him like Mickey was worthy of.. of anything. Adoration. Love. Worthy of one of those goddamn smiles that lit up Ian from ear to fuckin’ goofy ear.

But then Terry had showed up and Ian wouldn’t look at him during the– _during_. He wouldn’t look at Mickey _during_ and afterwards he’d only looked at Mickey in sadness and then disappointment and then after the disappointment came the _anger_ and the leaving and then there had been nothing. 

Ian had come home from the army and looked at Mickey with _nothing_ in those green eyes. 

> _– I left when I couldn’t take anything else from you._

Something inside Mickey that was already raw and awful and _broken_ cracked just a little bit more, and he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes tight. 

> _– You were always the one who pushed me away._

On the other side of town, Ian walked into a fire station with a plate of cookies and met someone named Caleb. 

> _– You were always the one who pushed me away._

Mickey tore Ian’s letter up and threw it away. 

> _– I left when I couldn’t take anything else from you._

And the next morning Ian hated himself for comparing Caleb’s nice enough smile to Mickey’s heart stopping grin. 

**************

**************

It took a week. 

One sheet of paper, one line. 

> _– Why the fuck did you come see me Gallagher_

And the answer a few days later, the same sheet of paper but stained with tears, red ink and spindly letters. 

> _– Cos I haven’t felt anything in months but I got angry with you and it felt good, made me feel normal and I miss feeling normal._
> 
> _~~– Cos I’ve been dreaming about you every night and I needed to hear your voice.~~ _
> 
> _~~– Cos I miss you so much I can’t even breathe~~ _
> 
> _~~– Cos it makes me fucking sad you think i didn’t love you~~ _
> 
> _– Cos most days I don’t know who I am, but I always know who you are_
> 
> _– I always know who you are._

Mickey read it once and then twice and then one more time, then reached over and smacked his cell mate across the top of the head and ordered, “Get me that fuckin’ paper over there.” 

“The hell I will! Get down from your bunk and get your own–” 

“Get me that paper or I’ll cut your throat while you sleep!” Mickey snatched at the paper and pen when it was hurriedly shoved his way. “Jesus Christ, just do what I fuckin’ tell ya, huh? _Fuck_!” 

> _– Well I’m real fuckin’ glad your normal is bein’ pissed at me, Fire crotch._
> 
> _– Be a better fuckn’ pen pal and write me back_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little more intense than the first two, Ian finally opens up about what he’s going through and feeling, Lip talks some sense into his brother and Mickey draws slightly pornographic things to make his boyfriend ex pen pal smile. 
> 
> TW for show typical discussions and depictions of depression/bipolar disorder/ alcoholism

> _– What the hell makes people good pen pals? Just super long letters? Well here, here’s a super long letter for you. Give me a goddamn pen pal badge or something._

Mickey couldn’t believe Ian hadn’t bitched about being called _Firecrotch_ , and wondered idly if the lack of comment meant Ian had gone back to shaving or–or man-scaping or whatever the fuck the dancers at the Fairy Tale called it. He didn’t like that shit, didn’t like to pull Ian’s pants down and just see skin, what the hell was wrong with some pubes? Who willingly laid down and got their balls waxed? 

> _– Debbie and Fiona only ever scream at each other now. Debbie is pregnant and Fiona was pregnant and got an abortion and both of them hate each other. We almost lost our house, did I tell you that? Carl bought it back with very sketchy money and now Debbie is trying to live somewhere else and sleep with some cancer lady I think._
> 
> _–Frank is all over the place. He was in Puerto Rico or something and fell in love and she died now he can’t handle losing her? He’s really into Debbie and the baby, I think it’s some weird ‘the world needs more Gallaghers’ crusade which is fucked up, since he doesn’t give two shits about the kids he already has._
> 
> _– Lip’s been fucking one of his professors and an ex girlfriend found out and turned them in and now–_

“Fuckin–” Mickey tossed the letter aside and scrubbed at his eyes. “I don’t care about this shit. _Jesus_.” 

Yeah, he’d told Ian to be a better fucking pen pal, and yeah Mickey would kill someone before admitting he’d been excited to get another letter that was more than one sheet but _fuck_ he didn’t give a damn about run of the mill Gallagher bullshit, nobody cared about that mess so why the hell was Ian writing a whole bunch’a nothing and wasting his time?

And it didn’t even sound like Ian, it didn’t sound like _Ian_ , not how he usually talked all expressive and noisy and wide eyes and earnest expressions. It felt like Ian after the break, after the medications when his eyes were flat and his voice was empty and every word felt like he was reading from the worlds most boring script. 

The letter didn’t sound like Ian, it was just an info dump, random facts and little effort and line after line of absolutely _nothing_. 

…but it was better than staring at four walls, and it was physical proof that Ian had thought about him for at least long enough to write the letter and address it, and Mickey felt real fuckin’ _pathetic_ for thinking those were valid reasons to turn the page and read on. 

But he turned the page anyway, and read right the fuck on.

Three pages front and back of nonsensical Gallagher shenanigans and Mickey read it _all_ , even jotted down notes on his own sheet of paper like a goddamn nerd so he’d be able to write a good reply back. And he tried, he did. He tried extra hard to engage with the information and ask the sort of questions that would make Ian react cos after the psych ward Ian had whispered– ‘ _You gotta help me remember how to feel human, keep me looped in to conversations. Otherwise I don’t even feel real_ ’ and damn it Mickey was gonna try. 

He was gonna _try_. 

But halfway through the line– ‘ _the worst fuckin’ people can be real weird about grandkids, you saw how Terry was with Yev_ ’– Mickey gave up trying and crossed it all out. 

> _– Fuck me, I don’t care all about all that shit. I don’t care about those people. Debbie’s just another South Side teenage mom and you know damn well Frank is running a long con. Fiona thinks she’s better than everyone else in that fuckin’ neighborhood but she’s the exact same. Lip actin’ like the world is ending cos a married woman wasn’t gonna give up her life for him is bullshit and whatever the hell Carl is doin’ will blow over. Things never stay changed at your house for long, it always settles into the same shit over and over._

He tapped the pen at his thigh a couple times, then blew out a deep breath and wrote a few more lines. 

> _–I don’t care about them. Tell me about you._
> 
> _– Tell me why you didn’t look at me._

************

_–Mickey,_

_–Sorry that was boring, I don’t know what to say to you anymore. Don’t know if I ever knew what to say to you. What do you want to know about me? That I’m taking my meds? That I’m not psycho anymore? That I’m never gonna take your kid from you and your **wife** and run away again?_

Ian blinked when he saw he’d tore through the paper on the word wife. He was angrier than he realized about Svetlana, angrier than he realized at Mickey. That didn’t make any sense of course, the medication might make shit fuzzy but they gave him enough clarity to know Mickey had only been trying to help him when he was manic, so why– why was he so _angry_? 

> _–I don’t know what to say to you, Mick. Talking was never our strong point. All we ever did was fight and fuck, when did that stop working?_
> 
> _– Why didn’t I look at you?_

Ian thought back to that first day at the prison, how Mickey had stared right at him and _smiled_ , shown off that god awful tattoo and said he’d been thinking about Ian, how Mickey had sorta laughed like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t the end of their story, like life wasn’t fully and royally fucked from here on out.

Mickey had stared right at him and _smiled_ and it had burned through to Ian’s soul. He’d spent half his life waiting for Mickey Milkovich to look at him like that, and then it had happened through a glass wall in the prison and–

– _Damn it._ Ian was writing before his mind even caught up, the words landing on the paper angry and hurried and raw. 

> _– Couldn’t handle seeing you through the glass. Fuck this is so much worse than when you were in juvie. Fifteen years you’re supposed to have, not just a few months. You won’t be out in a few months and tracking me down to fuck beneath the bleachers, you won’t be getting out for over crowding, this is real fuckin’ serious and you kept smiling like everything was fine and every thing is not fine because this is my fault this is my fault this is my fault._

The letter derailed from there, jumbled and rambling and disjointed and Ian wrote for _pages_ , pouring out all the things he’d kept bottled up forever, everything he couldn’t tell his family because they’d worry, everything he wouldn’t even admit to himself cos maybe it all meant that he wasn’t anything near _okay_. 

He wrote about the way he only remembered _half_ of what happened in his manic state, how sometimes he’d been so sure everything was fine and then he’d wake up in a panic because for about three seconds of sanity he knew something was wrong. He barely remembered taking Yev, didn’t really remember being found, he didn’t remember how or why he decided to surrender himself to the psych ward but _oh_ he remembered Mickey holding him and how good it had felt, how grounding it had been to be held so tight for just a minute. 

> _–Can’t trust my own memories. Was it real? Was it just what I thought was happening? Am I hallucinating still? Sure seems like it must be because who the fuck would think Mickey Milkovich would want to be goddamn pen pals? What the fuck is happening? No way this is real. Keep reaching for my pills and counting them out to make sure I took them cos this is goddamn surreal._
> 
> _– So tired of being numb, Mick, sometimes it seemed the only thing I could feel was you but these days I’m tempted to burn my hand again just to make sure I’m still alive, I’m so damn tired of being tired and so damn tired of being empty and I can’t even trust my emotions, my feelings, can’t talk about them cos what if they aren’t actually true? What if my pills aren’t actually working and I’m batshit crazy and everybody knows it but me?_

> _– Some days I have to convince myself I even left for the army, some mornings I wake up in my bed and think none of it happened and that it’s the day of your wedding and I’m only hours away from asking you to leave with you and you telling me no._
> 
> _–What does real even mean, for love or romance or boyfriends or whatever? Can’t be love if it was pity, can’t be love if I was crazy, can’t be love if we were only fighting and fucking that’s not love and if it was how’m I supposed to know when I don’t know myself one day from the next–_

The pen snapped in Ian’s hand and spilled ink over the bottom half of the fifth or maybe it was the _sixth_ page and Ian stared down at the liquid in surprise, yanked from spiraling thoughts and run away emotions by the noise and the mess and the _jerk_ back to reality.

And then slowly slowly, carefully carefully Ian reached for his medicine box and counted out the pills to be sure _again_ he’d taken them today. Slowly slowly, carefully carefully, Ian picked up another pen and forced his hand to steady so he could write just one more thing. 

> _– I couldn’t look at you that day, Mick. Couldn’t look at you and couldn’t look away from you and you kept wanting something I couldn’t give. I couldn’t promise to wait for you cos I couldn’t even promise I’d be alive that night._
> 
> _– I don’t know who I am anymore. You don’t know who I am anymore. And I don’t know where to go from here._

***********

It took Mickey a full week to get through Ian’s letter 

He kept trying to read it and then putting it away, kept picking it up and getting ~~scared~~ overwhelmed by the pain and panic so obvious in the words, kept trying to get through another page and giving up because it _hurt_ to know Ian was so lost. 

It took a full week but he finally made it through and when he got to the very last line, Mickey laughed a little, laughed and sniffed and briefly thought about breaking someone’s nose because none of this was fucking _fair_. 

Ian didn’t know who he was, but it wasn’t like Mickey had any idea who _he_ was anymore either. Writing letter to his boyfriend? Saying ‘I love you’ all the time and looking forward to mail call like a little bitch? He had actually stayed out of a fight yesterday cos he kept thinking about time off for good behavior and how Ian would only wait eight years, even though he knew good and well Ian wasn’t going to wait at all. 

Who was Mickey Milkovich to be grasping at literal crumbs of attention from someone who clearly didn’t want much of anything to do with him? 

Mickey didn’t feel like he knew himself at all these days, but he sure as hell knew Ian. He knew even when those gorgeous eyes were blank, even when Ian’s voice was flat and shoulders hunched and skin too pale– Mickey knew _his_ Ian was still there somewhere. 

So instead of trying to write back anything sensible, instead of trying– and most likely failing– to put everything into words like Ian had done, Mickey jotted down a couple sentences and spent the next fifteen minutes working on a picture for Ian. It was just a sketch and it wasn’t gonna win any art contests but he knew it would make the redhead smile and for a whole bunch of reasons, Ian _smiling_ was all that mattered.

And just before putting the letter in the ‘outgoing’ box, Mickey tore the envelope open and added one more line so Ian would know he was goddamn serious about this whole thing. 

The block went into lockdown over another bullshit fight and Mickey went to his cell without argument, without even looking twice at the guards he passed. 

Eight years so long as he behaved himself, and damn it, he was gonna behave himself. 

****************

> _– The fuck you mean you don’t know who you are anymore, THIS is who you are, I know exactly who you are. Sometimes you get lost beneath the shit, but you’re still you alright? Cut it out with that dramatic girly bullshit._

The picture was hilarious and crude– the Gallagher house, run down and crappy looking with a dozen stick figures in the background. At what was supposed to be a mailbox was Ian, drawn over tall and with a ridiculous amount of red hair sticking up from his head. Stick figure Ian had a big smile and was holding a letter, and down between his legs was a fairly detailed, hilariously pornographic dick hanging halfway to his knees, complete with bright red pubes. 

There was a big arrow pointing to stick figure Ian with a note, “This is your dumb ass excited over a letter” and for the first time in a long time– maybe the first time since that last night with Mickey at the dug outs– Ian laughed until his sides hurt, laughed and laughed as he taped the picture up above his bed. 

> _– Sometimes I dunno how to talk to you either, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop trying._
> 
> _– And if you burn your hand again, I’m gonna break outta here just to beat your ass for being fuckin’ stupid, see if you feel THAT motherfucker._
> 
> _– I’m not gonna let you be hurt again_
> 
> _– Stay alive, bitch._

Ian hung the letter up next to the picture, grabbed a permanent marker and circled the last line with thick black ink. 

> _–Stay alive bitch._

*************

“You’re writing Mickey again?” Carl was counting out money on the kitchen table, and Ian pushed a pile aside with his pen so it didn’t fall over onto his note. “So what, you guys love each other again?” 

“Um.” Ian’s eyebrows rose when the kid wrapped a rubber band around a thousand dollars and tucked it away in his shoe. “No? I mean yeah I’m writing him again but um– I dunno if we love each other again. Dunno if we ever really did. Why?” 

Whatever Carl said in response was lost behind a clatter of pans, and Ian closed his eyes in brief annoyance when Lip gave one of those too loud sighs that usually meant he was squaring up for another argument. 

All they seemed to do lately was fucking _fight_ and Ian didn’t have the energy for it this morning. 

“Something on your mind, Lip?” he asked tersely. “Aren’t you supposed to be at college wiping floors for sorority girls or something?” 

“Fuck you.” Lip winged a dish towel at him and Ian slapped it away with a scowl. “And you’re wrong about Mickey, alright? Don’t say that shit about him.” 

“You don’t know fuck all about what me and Mickey are doing.” Ian retorted as Carl _wisely_ cleared his money from the table and made himself scarce. “Don’t you have better things to do than stick your nose in my business?” 

“Okay look.” For once, Lip didn’t look like he was spoiling for a fight. Instead he looked tired and maybe even a little sad and that was so unexpected Ian didn’t really know how to take it. “You gonna listen?” 

“…I’m listening.” Ian sat back in his chair and made an effort not to look so pissed off. “What’s up?” 

“I’m the last person in the world who wants to say anything nice about a fucking Milkovich.” Lip muttered. “But I’m telling you, you’re wrong about Mickey, about him not loving you. That guy is nuts about you, why else would he be writing you letters?” 

“We got some shit to figure out.” Ian waved a dismissive hand towards the letter. “It’s– you know, guilt maybe? Doesn’t mean anything real.” 

“Anything real.” Lip pursed his lips and nodded a few times. “Yeah alright. So when you left for the army, it didn’t mean anything real when Mickey spent weeks tryna drink himself to death? When you came back and started slipping, it didn’t mean anything real when he screamed at us that he’d take care of you, that he’d hide the knives so you wouldn’t get hurt and that you were family, that he was gonna look out for you?” 

“That’s–” Ian frowned. “Well we were sorta dating so–” 

“This is a kid who once tried to kill Frank when he caught you guys together, right?” Lip pressed. “Well when we went to the police station to get you and Yev, he told the cop that he was your partner, your lover, your family. Mickey said all that shit out loud in front of a whole bunch of people, and you think he doesn’t love you? You think that’s not real?” 

“But it–” 

“For fucks sake.” Lip laughed but it wasn’t a good sound. “He was willing to kill fucking Sammi for calling the MP’s on you. He’s in jail for what, fifteen years?” 

“…eight with good behavior.” 

“So fifteen years. And you can’t sack up enough to go see him?” 

Anger, flaring hot and familiar because it was the only thing Ian could _always_ feel these days. “I went and saw him when he went in, and then went and saw him just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to see me.” 

“Yeah well, go again.” Lip said flatly. “Go again. Try again.” 

“I’m not–” _damn it_ he hated admitting anything to his family. “I think my meds need adjusted again, I’m not doin’ real well right now, Lip.” 

“And you think Mickey is?” he challenged and Ian grimaced away from it. “He loves you in some hard core south side Milkovich way and if you can’t see that? If having Mickey _fucking_ Milkovich announce to the entire world that he is your partner and your family and then go to prison for you, write letters to you and draw whatever the fuck that picture is in your room? If you can’t see that all of this is him saying he loves you?” 

Lip shook his head. “You don’t deserve him. Thought hell would freeze over before I sided with that family, but I’m _telling_ you, you’re doing him wrong.” 

Ian stared down at the letter he’d started, at the random information he’d put into it, all the bullshit he knew Mickey wouldn’t care about and all the lines he’d crossed out because he was still _exhausted_ from writing the last letter and didn’t want to turn this one into another admission of everything awful he felt every single day. 

_You’re doing him wrong._

“That lady professor really fucked you up, huh?” Ian said instead of everything else he wanted to say. “She broke your heart and now you think you’re a love doctor? Going to give everyone advice on how to fix their happily ever after?” 

“No.” Lip denied, and then, “Well yeah. Yeah, she fucked me up. But no, fuck you with that love doctor shit. Mickey came out in front of his dad after all that shit about the Russian and how Terry made you watch while they– ” he cleared his throat. “–when all that happened. You _know_ he loves you. You owe it to him to at least acknowledge it. I mean, did you ever even apologize to him for leaving with Monica? You think that didn’t fuck him up?” 

“If we’re talking about who owes how many apologies, pretty sure there’s more tally marks in Mickey’s column.” Ian said bitterly. “He put me through hell for a real long time before he decided to be a half decent boyfriend. He got married and had a kid instead of just admitting he was gay, I had to leave for the army then come back and threaten to leave all over again just for him to come out. That doesn’t seem like love.” 

“So what, that means you get to fuck with him now?” Lip grabbed a beer from the fridge, then grabbed one of those stupid fake beers for Ian and tore the cap off, slid it across the counter to him. “You guys were basically kids back then. You came out to us and what, I asked a couple obnoxious questions and then let it go? Fiona didn’t even blink when you told her. It was literally life or death for Mickey to come out, and you kept pushing him anyway. He could’a _died_ , Ian. If not Terry it could’ve been one of Terry’s friends that beat him to death for being gay. Life or death and you told him to _choose_ so the minute he could, he chose you.” 

Ian was quiet, and Lip pressed, “He chose _you_ , Ian. Over and over and over even after you were dancing at that club and cheating on him, even after you took his kid. He chose _you_ and you won’t see it. That doesn’t look like love?” 

Ian was _quiet_ , and Lip shrugged, “Then fuck you, man. If I was Mickey I wouldn’t write your ass at all. Leave him alone to rot in there, don’t string him along and sit here telling people he never loved you. That’s bullshit.” 

Anger again, but Ian didn’t know if he was mad at Lip for the lecture or mad at Mickey for– for _something_ or mad at himself, so he gripped at the table until his knuckles turned white and asked through clenched teeth, “Why the hell do you care?” 

“Cos I’ve been drinking a lot and saying whatever I want lately and it feels really really good.” Lip drained the rest of his beer pointedly. “And since every time we talk lately we end up throwing punches, I figure I might as well say it all now when I’m drunk enough not to hurt when you try to break my nose.” 

“You’re wrong about me and Mickey.”

“Maybe.” Entirely unperturbed. “But since you look like you’re ready to kill me, maybe I’m right after all. Think you’d be half as pissed off if I was wrong?” 

“… you act an awful lot like Frank lately.” Ian muttered. “Get drunk and start talking shit and think you sound good and wise when really you’re just talking out of your ass.” 

“Doesn’t mean I’m not right.” Ian wasn’t looking so he didn’t see the hurt in Lip’s eyes, the resignation in the slump of his shoulders as he opened another beer. “Even fucking Frank makes a good point every once in a while.” 

“Sure.” Ian gathered up all his papers and shoved them into his back pocket, grabbed his jacket off the hangar and hurried into it. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Where the hell are you going?” 

“To see Mickey.” Ian paused halfway out the door and asked, “ _Really_? He called me his partner?” 

“Partner, lover, family.” Lip repeated. “In front of all those people right before he sat in the backseat with you and pretended none of us knew he was crying.”

“Shit.” Ian swallowed hard. “I’ll be back later. Put the fuckin’ beer down, Lip.” 

Lip only lifted the bottle in salute, and kept right on drinking. 

*************

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings up Svetlana and 3x06 so all the usual Shameless TW apply. But PROGRESS for our boys and I love it. Ian sort of talks himself into an epiphany about Mickey and Mickey forces himself to confront a few truths about what he really feels.

Mickey had been angry his entire life. Back when Mom was around he’d been angry because Terry treated her so bad and he’d known it even as a kid. After Mom was _gone_ , he’d been angry because any bit of beauty and softness left in their house had gone right out the door with her. 

Terry had made life in the Milkovich house miserable, had filled the hours with his own rage and his children’s fear and as Mickey had gotten older and realized he was– realized he was– 

–well, as Mickey got older and realized he wasn’t as interested in girls like Terry expected, that _fear_ had crammed down deep into his bones and into his soul and came out his mouth as denial and a smart ass attitude and the _fuck you_ that was scrawled across his knuckles. It came out in the way he flinched if people came too close too quick, it came out in the way Mickey rolled his eyes at Mandy but was always ready to stab someone for looking at her wrong, the way his first reaction was always always _violence_ even if he regretted it in the next minute. 

Mickey was _angry_ , but when he was called down for visiting hours and saw Ian sitting there on the other side of the glass all that anger rushed away and just left him shaking. 

And it was probably some of that repressed bull shit the prison therapist was always going on about, unaddressed feelings that came out in rage and left them feeling empty and useless afterwards, and _damn it_ Mickey didn’t know if he was more irritated that he’d actually remembered that self help crap or pissed off that there was no denying that shit was true when it came to him and Ian.

 _Fuckin’ therapists. Fuckin’ crazy._

It took more courage than Mickey would ever admit just to sit down in that damn plastic chair and pick up the phone, and he kept his tone purposefully brusque and just about rude as fuck as he snapped, “What the hell are you doing here?” 

Letters were one thing, face to face was something else entirely and despite their most recent letters getting a little more personal, seeing Ian right in front of him was like a sucker punch to the gut and Mickey hated it.

He hadn’t been ready to see Ian last time around and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to to see him now, but Mickey was no one’s bitch so he squared up and sat down and pretended like he wasn’t scared out of his mind. 

“Thought maybe you’d be happy to see me.” Hell, Ian was angry too. Stubborn jaw set and green eyes flashing for the split second he actually looked at Mickey. “You’ve been writing me, figured a visit wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Yeah, cos that’s what I want.” Mickey sniffed, glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention. “Fuckin ginger showin’ up to see me all the time. What, you don’t got nothing better to do? Thought you were changing your life around or some shit.” 

Ian glanced away and Mickey snuck the chance to outright stare for a minute. _Fuck me runnin’, he’s so beautiful._

“I gotta ask you something and a letter won’t cut it.” Ian finally said and Mickey raised his eyebrows like he didn’t care either way. “What um– what did you say to the cops when you came to get Yevgeny from the station after I took him? When they asked who you were to me, what did you say?” 

“I didn’t say shit.” Mickey lied automatically, then cursed under his breath when the phrase _bad coping skills_ and _repressed emotions_ went through his head. “I let your brother do the talking, I’ve got a record you know? Figured they didn’t want some juvie delinquent showing up to spring you.” 

“You didn’t say shit.” Ian repeated and Mickey pursed his lips, nodding. 

“Fuckin’ liar.” the redhead muttered and Mickey snapped, “What’d you say?” 

“I said you’re a fucking liar!” Ian hunched his shoulders and shook his head, looking away with a hoarse sort of laugh that meant he didn’t find it funny at all. “You’re lying to me. Again. Fucking always.” 

“Yeah?” Something bent a little inside Mickey’s center, bent and maybe even broke and his voice cracked when he whispered, “Yeah, well you’re not looking at me so what does it fuckin’ matter what I’m saying?” 

Ian’s eye brows scrunched but he didn’t reply and Mickey held the phone so tight it shook in his hand, leaned closer to the glass and hissed “See that’s our problem right there, Gallagher. When you ask me for something you never look away, sit there and stare at me with those goddamn big eyes and stupid smiles but when I need something from you– _anything_ from you– you can’t even look me in the eye. You can’t do it now, couldn’t do it the first time you came to see me and you couldn’t do it–” 

He swallowed hard and forced the words out. “You couldn’t look at me the day Terry forced me with Lana.” 

Ian flinched and Mickey felt a surge of all too familiar anger. “Was that a real bad day for you?” he all but snarled, years of hurt bubbling up and spilling over like poison. “Was that difficult? Looking away when I was getting– getting hurt like that? Gun pointed at my head and Terry sayin’ not to stop until I wasn’t gay anymore?” 

He lowered his voice even more and on the other side of the glass, Ian covered his eyes with one of those big hands. “I wanted you to look at me, Ian. Wanted to know you were there with me, that you were there _for_ me and I dunno if you were just a pussy or if that was the moment you realized I wasn’t worth the goddamn trouble but either way it was the end, huh?” 

“Mickey, no–” 

It was too late now, it was all spilling out like blood from a chest wound and Mickey couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. “You never looked at me the same after that day. You were always glaring like it was all my fucking fault, like I had a choice in anything after that. I never had a choice in anything, Ian. Never even had a choice when it came to you.” 

“Shit, I didn’t even get to choose _you_.” Mickey tried to laugh but it was almost a sob. “You just happened one day, showed up in my life and I was– what’s that stupid saying. Hook, line and sinker or some shit? That’s what it was. Fucking _hooked_ and then you couldn’t even look at me. You never looked at me the same anymore. Not at the wedding, not even when I came out. You were disgusted with me at the wedding and then you were so mad at me before I came out and so damn shocked after I did it’s like you never thought I was gonna be good for nothin’.” 

“You never looked at me the same.” he repeated, and now it only sounded hollow. “After that night you dropped or–or snapped or whatever the hell you did and you never looked at me like you used to. Probably never will, dunno why I’m even wasting my time.”

“Shit.” Ian scrubbed at his face wearily. “Mickey that’s not– I mean, I didn’t– I never meant to–” 

“I wanna punch you in your stupid perfect face.” Mickey muttered. “But you’d probably be hot even with a broken nose. I can’t even stay mad at you, it’s not fair.” 

“Mick–” 

“Are you taking your meds?” Mickey changed the subject before he blurted out something really stupid like shouting _I love you_ in the middle of the goddamn prison. “You said you needed to change them, you get that shit taken care of? Doin’ alright?” 

“…I’m afraid if I take a stronger dose I’ll go back to not feeling anything.” Ian kept staring down at the table but he finally risked a glance up, finally peeked up enough to see if anger still sparking in Mickey’s eyes. “I just barely started _feeling_ again, I don’t wanna go back to being numb.” 

Mickey thumbed at the corner of his mouth and nodded shortly, and Ian took that as a little bit of encouragement so he kept _looking_ and he kept talking. “I um– I already worry that what I feel isn’t real. Like maybe it’s just the meds or maybe it’s just my crazy. Upping my dose might take that away and I’m afraid of losing myself completely.” 

“Kay, well that’s enough of that.” Mickey rapped on the glass pointedly. “Take. Your goddamn. Meds. Not an option. Just do it.”

“I’ll try.” Ian hesitated. “Mick can we talk about Lana or what happened or–” 

“Nope.” Mickey shook his head and put the phone back in the cradle, voice muted through the glass cos he didn’t think he could handle even hearing Ian _breathe_ right now. “Don’t come back here again, Firecrotch. This ain’t good for either of us. You wanna talk? Write me, don’t do this shit. Gonna fuck me up doing this, don’t come anymore. I don’t want to see you.”

Mickey pushed away from the table and stalked away, leaving Ian staring at an empty seat and the vague impression that he’d been run over first by a truckful of anger and then by a boat load of sad and he didn’t know how to feel about any of it. 

_Mickey didn’t want to see him anymore?_

****************

****************

“Whoa, Tiger.” Fiona had to dodge a crumpled up letter as she came into the kitchen, and she tossed it in the trash with a wry smile. “What’s with the fast balls? What are you doing and why do you look so miserable?” 

“I went to see Mickey today.” Ian mumbled, staring down at a blank sheet of paper that was sure to be another failed note. “Didn’t go so great.” 

“…okay.” Fiona waited, eye brows up and expression expectant and Ian decided in a split second that he didn’t have time for her meddling. 

“Yeah. So see ya.” 

“No no no wait.” Fiona chased him up the stairs and lunged to grab at his arm. “Ian just wait a second. Don’t shut me out, okay? I know things are nuts right now and _I’m_ probably a little nuts right now but I’m still your sister. Still your family. You need to talk? Let’s talk. Come on.” 

“I don’t want to talk, Fiona.” Ian groused, but she dug her heels in and pulled back towards her room so he went along begrudgingly. “Fine. But don’t ask a bunch of questions.” 

“Sit.” Fiona shoved him towards her bed and started rifling through her closet trying to pick an outfit to go out in. “What happened with Mickey? Anything new or is it the same old bullshit?” 

“Same old bullshit.” he muttered, and when Fiona only _waited_ , Ian sighed out loud and tried again, “I went into the army because of Mickey. Things got crazy between us and I went to see him to give him one last chance to– to just be honest with me. To tell me he loved me or to ask me to stay and he didn’t.. He _wouldn’t_. So I left.” 

“Right.” Fiona said promptly, and that might have meant she knew the full story already and or maybe it meant that she only knew part of the story and didn’t want to bother Ian for more, but either way he was grateful for the lack of questions. 

“He told me not everyone gets to blurt out how they feel all the time.” Ian continued slowly. “And– and what does that even mean? It’s not like I was out there writing poetry and shouting that I loved him and waving a rainbow flag so everyone knew our business. And you know he only came out cos I threatened to leave again. I just wanted him to stop faking and be honest _one time_ and it’s always gotta be an ultimatum before he does anything for me!” 

Ian was picking up steam now, voice rising as he got more worked up. “I had to fuck JimmySteve’s dad just to get Mickey to kiss me!” 

Fiona blanched and Ian ignored her. “Had to dance at the Fairy Tale just to get him to acknowledge that _maybe_ he didn’t want me fucking other guys!” 

“Ian–” 

“Today I went and saw him and he told me not to come anymore!” Anger, sharp and blinding and _familiar_. “Told me that I never fucking look at him when he needs me to and that he wants to punch me! All I did was ask him what he said to the fucking cops when he got Yevgeny and he lied about it!” 

“Okay but buddy–” 

“I’m getting real fucking tired of having to push him for every little bit of everything.” Ian clenched his fist and briefly thought about putting it through the wall. “All I’ve ever wanted is for him to be honest with me and now he’s mad. Tells me not to come around. Lip says Mickey loves but I gotta tell you, this doesn’t feel like love!” 

“Okay.” Fiona was quiet a moment to give Ian a chance to keep talking before she asked, “Is this one of those times where you want to vent and I should keep my mouth shut, or do you want to know what I think?” 

“Since when do you ask before blurting out what you think?” Ian scoffed.”Is that a new thing?” 

“This whole mess with Debbie has me reconsidering a few things about how I act.” she admitted uneasily, meeting Ian’s eyes through the mirror as she twisted her hair up. “Maybe the best thing isn’t to steam roll you guys into talking with me or trying to make decisions like you all are kids still. I’m trying, alright? Cut me some slack.” 

“Sure.” Ian flopped back against the pillows. “Fine. Give me advice.” 

“Alright, but you can’t be pissed about it.” Fiona warned, and only once Ian nodded did she continue, “Ian. I think you’re asking Mickey for something he might never be able to give you.” 

“HONESTY?!” Ian exploded and Fiona snapped back, “I told you not to be pissed about it!” 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” A pillow ricocheted off the wall. “If Mickey loved me at all then he would be able to–” 

“Oh please, that kid can’t even _look_ at you without practically vibrating with how much he loves you.”

That certainly got Ian’s attention and he sat back up slowly. “…what?” 

“Mickey’s not just honest, he’s transparent when it comes to you.” she said flatly. “It’s almost painfully obvious how much he loves you. Even when he’s all–” she did a remarkably bad impression of the brunette, “– _fuck you, fuck off, i don’t give a fuck_. No one believes that shit, Ian. Or at least no one who’s paying attention. He deflects all the time cos if Terry ever saw the truth? If he even caught a _glimpse_ of how Mickey looks at you, that nazi bastard would kill him in a second and then he’d come right after you.” 

Fiona went a little pale, her fingers shaking as she tried to apply lipstick. “What happened with you and Mickey and that Russian makes me sick but did you ever think maybe Mickey was trying to save your life by going through with the wedding? Terry almost beat him to death the night he came out and maybe you see that as hiding, but maybe Mickey saw it as protecting you, protecting what little bit of happiness you two had.” 

“You um– you know about Svetlana?” Ian whispered, and Fiona had tears in her eyes when she whispered back, “I found out, yeah. And I’m so so sorry. For both of you.” 

Ian swallowed away what was most likely tears and managed, “He’s– he’s transparent, huh? That obvious? How come I don’t see it then?” 

“Have you never looked that boy in the eye when he’s talking to you?” 

“When we’re fighting, I guess.” Guilt settled low in Ian’s heart and _fuck_ he didn’t like that at all. “Other times too. Sometimes.” 

“Not often enough I guess, or you’d see it.” Fiona motioned for him to turn around so she could change shirts real quick. “Every time you look away, I guarantee Mickey looking at you. Smiling at you. Doing that intense Milkovich thing Mandy used to do at Lip where she’d look him over all possessive and intense and yeah, it looked fucking crazy but I don’t doubt she loved him in some–” 

She waved her hand. “– some sort of Milkovich way. Those kids probably have no idea what normal love looks like, not that Gallaghers do either, but _they_ definitely don’t and Mickey has loved you in whatever intense way he does for a really long time. He couldn’t lie about that if he tried. He might not say the words or show it in a normal healthy well adjusted way, but it’s there anyway.” 

“Everyone sees this but me?” 

“That’s not your fault.” Fiona slid into a pair of pants and flicked a hair tie at him so he knew it was okay to turn back around. “You guys were just kids, Ian. You were barely sixteen when all this happened, trying to figure out how to deal with the day to day Gallagher crazy while figuring out your own life. Mickey was a kid and you were a kid and it’s nobody’s fault.” 

“It’s sorta Terry’s fault.” Ian mumbled and she groaned an agreement. 

“But it’s not Mickey’s fault for not being able to give you what you wanted, and it’s not _your_ fault for not seeing what little he was trying to give you.” Fiona decided. “Stop beating yourself up about it.” 

“He says I didn’t love him, though.” 

“Well did you?” she asked bluntly. “Did you love him? Cos it’s okay if you didn’t. Some people fall really truly in love as kids and that’s just it for them. Others think it’s love and look back later and realize it wasn’t. There’s no shame in that, bud. You were a kid. Still are a kid. Hell look at me, I’m in my mid twenties and still fucking it up. You got plenty of time to get it right.” 

“…I do love him though.” Barely a whisper, barely even a sentence, maybe the first time Ian had let himself say it out loud. “I love Mickey.” 

Fiona’s smile was maybe the realest Ian had seen it in a long time, her fingers gentle in his hair as she pushed it off his forehead. “I know you do, Ian. So maybe you stop telling me about it and try telling _him_.”

************* 

*************

Ian worked really hard on making sure the writing in this letter was super neat and legible, keeping his hand moving slow and purposeful because this was important and this was honest and he needed Mickey to know he meant it and he wasn’t just ranting. 

This wasn’t the meds, this was him, this was _Ian_ and this was truth and it’s about damn time he said it. 

And sure, part of it felt like a lie because _holy shit_ there was still so much Ian was angry about, still a bunch of questions he needed answered and arguments they needed to have. He was pissed off Lip had made him feel guilty, and conflicted cos Fiona kept saying it wasn’t anyone’s fault but it had to be _someone’s_ fault and he’d been blaming Mickey for all this but maybe now he should blame himself a little too? 

…Well, maybe the only good thing about Mickey being in jail was that they actually had to talk about their feeling instead of punching each other and then fucking it out, and a letter was as good a place to start as any. 

> _– You don’t have to tell me what you said to the cop, it’s enough that you came and got me at all. Brought me home, cleaned me up, stayed on me about my meds, went to appointments. You encouraged me to be better even when I yelled and screamed at you. Even when I hit you. Even when I left with Monica. Even when I ignored all your phone calls._
> 
> _– You tried to protect me and what we had and I’m sorry I didn’t see that._
> 
> _– Dunno if I ever said thank you, so here it is._
> 
> _– Thank you._
> 
> _– We were kids and most days I was real fucking lost but I don’t remember feeling lost when I was with you._

It wasn’t enough but it was something. An acknowledgment that Mickey had _tried_ in a hopeless fucking situation, a belated thank you but at least the words were there. Maybe a step towards being able to think about each other without wanting to tear their hair out. 

Ian looked up at the last letter from Mickey, the scrawled “stay alive bitch” and added a few more lines to his note.

> _–Eight years is a long time but fifteen would be even longer and I’d miss you like hell._
> 
> _–Stay out of trouble, bitch_

***************

***************

Mickey got the letter a few days later, re-read it half a dozen times and then shoved it beneath his mattress with the other ones he had kept and decided not to write back. 

It was time for something else, something different. 

Yeah, he was fucking angry and yeah thinking about Ian made his chest feel tight and suffocating and he couldn’t ever tell if he was gonna survive it or not but he was caught hook line and goddamn sinker and there was nothing he could do. 

Besides, he’d blurted all that out about Svetlana and it wasn’t– he couldn’t– _shit_ , Mickey didn’t know if he could have watched that happen if he’d been in Ian’s seat back then. He knew damn well he’d probably have drop kicked the ginger through the wall if he found out Ian was going and marrying some whore instead of just being honest about what they were doing. 

He wasn’t really mad at Ian about that. Not anymore. At first he’d been hurt and maybe even heart broken, then he’d been furious and felt all sorts of betrayed that Ian just didn’t understand his side of things but fuck it wasn’t like they’d ever really talked right? A few punches and then a good fuck was their version of a conversation and that was on the best of days. 

Mickey couldn’t be mad at Ian about it anymore. Caught hook line and sinker and there was nothing he could do cos he’d probably be pathetically in love with that ginger ass until the day he died. 

_What the fuck was he supposed to do?_

It took a whole week to find a smuggled phone in the cell block and it took another few days for Mickey’s cell mate to do something stupid and get sent off to solitary so Mickey was alone for the night. 

After the jail had gone quiet and the last guard walked by, Mickey yanked the cell phone from the hidey spot in the bed frame and dialed a number he knew by heart to send off a single word text message. 

**From MM** : _Gallagher_

It was one am and he didn’t expect an answer, but his phone blinged almost immediately with a reply. 

**From Ian** : _Who is this?_

It was stupid to be jealous that Ian was apparently wide the hell awake this late but Mickey couldn’t help his mind going right to the worst case scenario. Was he dancing again and just getting off work? Hooking up with someone and heading back home? Slipping manic and not able to sleep? 

**From MM** : _Who the fuck you think?_

 **From MM** : _It’s me, Firecrotch._

 **From Ian** : _Oh holy shit._

There was a longer wait this time and Mickey was just about to text again when a second one finally came through. 

**From Ian** : _So all those times I used to text you and you told me to stop writing notes like a fucking fourth grader with a crush and just to call you– what? You can text and apparently it’s fine? Doesn’t seem real fair._

Mickey grinned when he read it, practically hearing Ian’s dry disbelieving tone right there in his ear. 

**From MM** : _Yeah well being in prison changes the rules a little._

Ian didn’t text back right away, and Mickey waited a nerve wracking ten minutes before adding: 

**From MM** : _You want me to stop texting you_

The answer came lightning fast. 

**From Ian** : _No. Fuck no._

 **From Ian** : _Fell asleep watching a movie with Lip, was just trying to get upstairs_. 

**From Ian** : _Please talk to me. I get you not wanting to see me cos we just fight at each other but at least talk to me._

 **From Ian** : _Please_. 

Mickey chewed at the inside of his cheek for a minute, thinking about what he wanted to say, thinking about what Ian had asked and thinking back to that day at the cop station when he’d gone to get Yevgeny. 

**From MM** : _I told him you were my partner._

 **From MM** : _The cop I mean._

 **From MM** : _Said you were my partner, my lover, my family. Needed him and everyone else to know I wasn’t gonna leave without you._

 **From Ian** : _Holy shit Mickey_

…three dots while Ian apparently thought about what he was going to say. 

**From Ian** : _Were you wearing a dress saying all that shit or…_

 **From Mickey** : _Fuck off, I look great in a dress. I have great legs._

**From Ian** : _yeah, you really do._

 **From Ian** : _Thanks for coming to bring me home. And for protecting me from Terry. Thank you for all of that._

Mickey stared down at his screen for a long minute then typed slow and deliberate, honest and sort of fucking terrified–

 **From Mickey** : _I’d do it again in a second, Gallagher. All damn day_

 **From Mickey** : _Not gonna let you get hurt anymore_

 **From Ian** : _yeah, I think I’m starting to figure that out._

_****************_

_****  
{{Sorry about the delay between chapters! I’m working a second job and things are just generally crazy. I appreciate all the comments though! The encouragement on this fic has been amazing and I appreciate every little bit. You guys stay safe and healthy!}}_


	5. Chapter 5

Mickey couldn’t text all the time. A contraband cell phone was a sure way to get in trouble if the guards were feeling particularly tough that day or if his bitchy cell mate decided to make a ruckus. He had to wait until the middle of the night, or a quiet minute during the day for a little bit of privacy just to power the thing on and send a quick message and Ian understood—

—okay Ian _didn’t_ understand, he didn’t understand why life was so fucking unfair that the one time he and Mickey were actually communicating it was from behind bars and at random times. He didn’t understand _that_ at all.

But he understood that Mickey was trying and that made the wait worth it. So he kept his phone on all the time and checked every message immediately _just in case_ , and in the between time he kept right on writing letters. 

> _—Mick,_
> 
> _—Maybe we should start over. Not talk about what happened but like… about normal things. Regular things that regular couples talking about and fuck, I know we weren’t ever regular or normal ( is anyone from the south side either of those things) but I don’t want every time we write to each other to be angry and emotional and…. and awful._
> 
> _— Maybe we just talk about normal things._

Sometimes their letters were long as Ian talked about his family, about Fiona and her weird not-quite-marriage to Gus and then how quickly she’d fallen in with Sean, about Debbie and the pregnancy and Frank’s odd obsession with suddenly supporting her. Lip and college falling apart and his drinking, Carl– whatever the hell Carl was doing– and Liam who Ian was sure couldn’t do anything wrong, and god fuckin’ help the kid if he ended up like any of _them_. 

He talked about his slow start to being a paramedic and how it made him feel less crazy, less _useless_ , to be helping people and when he skipped over the moment where his boss found out about his disorder and nearly fired him, Ian also skipped over the part about _Caleb_. 

Nothing had happened yet and the way Caleb had pulled back the other night sure made it seem like nothing was going to happen soon, so Ian didn’t see any reason to bring it up. 

It wasn’t like he was cheating on Mickey, right? They weren’t dating and they certainly weren’t together with Mickey locked up and Ian had a right to date around if he wanted…

…it still felt weird, so he didn’t mention Caleb. 

Or his disorder. 

Or anything that might take the conversation beyond the level of casual. 

It was probably easier this way for Mickey too, easier to start over and pretend like they didn’t have years of trauma between the two of them, right? 

> _– This is weird, but I realized the other day I don’t know what your favorite color is. All the time we spent together and I never asked. It sort of made me wonder what else I don’t know about you. What’s your favorite food? TV Show? We should do twenty questions and find out all the shit about each other normal neighbors and friends would know._

Sometimes Mickey’s hand shook when he wrote Ian back, the effort of holding back all the things he was _finally_ ready to say making his fingers tremble. Ian wanted to keep things casual, wanted to start over, wanted to put up distance between them even now, even after everything and it didn’t seem real fuckin’ fair and Mickey _shook_ with trying to keep it all inside. 

Twenty questions? Ian wanted to play twenty fucking questions like he hadn’t already seen Mickey turned inside out and desperate to get to him. What the hell did his favorite color matter when he thought his damn heart would beat out of his chest every time he turned on the phone and saw Ian’s name waiting there in a message? Who the hell cared what show he liked or whether or not spy movies were better than military movies? 

_Mickey_ didn’t fucking care but he clenched his teeth and tightened his jaw and wrote back answers to each one of Ian’s inane questions because none of it mattered but Ian was still talking to him and maybe it was pathetic to want it so badly, but Mickey _did_ and that was all there was to it. 

Besides, maybe it felt a little bit nice to read about the Gallagher chaos. The family was bat shit crazy but they were still _family_ and wound through Ian’s complaints about Lip or issues with Debbie’s willingness to be a fifteen year old mom was love and acceptance for his sibling’s shenanigans, a level of understanding that Mickey had only had briefly from Mandy and never from anyone else sharing the name Milkovich. 

> _– Favorite color is blue. And then alien red and fucking green. Probably black, I dunno._

Ian used the letters like a journal sometimes, listing out his day and his week and Mickey read those ones over and over cos it made him feel a little bit closer, a little more connected. Maybe it helped Ian remember his day better, maybe it helped him feel steady like his mind wasn’t slipping, maybe it was just because he really didn’t have anything else to say, but either way Mickey read them over and over and _over_. 

And over and over and _over_ every single bland fact hurt because Mickey had lain his entire heart out there for Ian to trample over… and the redhead still found it so easy to start over and talk about normal things. 

Normal things. 

As if anything ever in Mickey’s life had ever been fucking _normal_. 

It didn’t seem real _normal_ that when Mickey was finally ready to say everything he wanted to say, when he was safe enough to admit the things he hadn’t even able to whisper in the dark–

–the person he wanted to say them to didn’t want to hear it. 

That didn’t seem real _normal_ at all. 

**From Ian** : _You crossed out a lot in the last letter._

 **From Ian** : _Thanks. Dunno if I can handle talking about all that. I know we have to talk about Svetlana and your dad and me going fucking crazy eventually, but I can’t do it yet._

 **From Ian** : _So thanks for crossing it out._

And like an absolute fucking idiot because even _now_ Mickey would do anything for him: 

**From Mickey:** _No worries. Don’t want to talk about it anyway._

************

It was a bad week, Mickey could tell from Ian’s more recent letter so it wasn’t a surprise when he turned on his phone one night and found a bunch of texts waiting. 

**From Ian** : _Why didn’t you love me back then._

**From Ian** : _I don’t want you to love me now, not when I’m not who I was last year or the year before or who I was my entire fucking life. I don’t want you to love me now I wanted you to love me then, why didn’t you love me then._

 **From Ian** : _I needed you and you pushed me away_

 **From Ian** : _All the damn time. Couldn’t be seen with me, didn’t want to be seen with me, wouldn’t let me kiss you_

 **From Ian** : _At fifteen I would have done anything for you to just smile at me for some reason other than I just got you off. Why the hell couldn’t you give me anything._

**From Ian:** _Why didn’t you love me?_

Mickey took a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes. A quick check of the time stamp proved the messages had been sent _hours_ ago which meant Ian was either feeling better again and didn’t want to talk, or was still spiraling over whatever had set him off. 

He probably could have turned the phone back off and gone to sleep, written Ian a letter back and acted like the texts hadn’t happened but– _why didn’t you love me_ – burned into his eyes and made his throat tighten up in sadness and maybe even _anger_ and Mickey was texting back before he stopped himself, fingers flying over the keys and hitting send before he could convince himself not to write it. 

Ian had asked if they talk about normal things, but then he goes and dumps this at Mickey’s feet and all over his heart? 

_No fucking way._

**From Mickey** : _You’re bein’ real fucking stupid if you think I didn’t love you back then._

 **From Ian** : _Am I?_

 **From Mickey** : _Real fucking stupid, Gallagher. Back off._

 **From Ian** : _Fiona says everyone could see how much you loved me, but it sure wasn’t obvious to me. Fuck Mickey, you told me you’d cut my tongue out if I tried to kiss you._

 **From Mickey** : _THE FIRST TIME._

 **From Mickey** : _and not wanting to be kissed up doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I just didn’t like to be kissed._

 **From Ian:** _You threatened to send me to the psych ward! Told me I was going to the hospital even if you had to send me to the ER for it._

 **From Mickey** : _I’d break your fucking leg myself before I let you run around sick and hurting like that. Fuck off._

The phone stayed dark for a long time, long enough that Mickey assumed Ian had fallen asleep, or pitched the phone out the window or decided the conversation wasn’t worth finishing. 

And it _wasn’t_ worth finishing, was it? Ian had been pretty clear about not wanting to talk about this sort of stuff but damn it the asshole had brought it up first, it would be a shitty move on his part to just ditch. 

…shitty, but Mickey wouldn’t put it past him. He knew full well how much easier it was to say ‘fuck off’ and walk away instead of dealing with anything real. 

But then–

 **From Ian** : _Was that supposed to be romantic? Telling me you’d break my leg to keep me from running around sick?_

 **From Mickey** : _It’s supposed to be proof that I fucking love your skinny ass_

 **From Ian:** …

 **From Ian** : … 

**From Ian** : _I’m not all that skinny anymore._

And Mickey laughed a little bit, rubbed at his face and wet his lips then texted back. 

**From Mickey:** _Yeah, you’re fucking gorgeous is what you are._

 **From Ian** : _You think I’m gorgeous?_

 **From Mickey** : _*middle finger emoji*_

 **From Ian** : _No I’m serious. All you ever called me was pasty or alien or ginger or firecrotch. You think I’m gorgeous?_

 **From Mickey** : _What part of the middle finger fucking picture didn’t you get? I think you’re gorgeous, so what?_

 **From Ian** : _Tell me the truth then_

 **From Ian** : _You were willing to love me with everything going on. Anger issues and weird outbursts and all the medications and the depressions and then mania. You were willing to love me? You chose this mess? For real?_

 **From Mickey:** _Don’t think it was a choice, Ian. I loved you. Period. Right up until you stated cheating on me._

 **From Ian** : _You didn’t love me after that?_

Mickey swallowed and sat back on the bed, put the phone down on his chest so he didn’t have to stare at the light for a minute and closed his eyes.

There’d been a time he’d never told Ian about, the night before Ian had ran away with Yev when Mickey had gone to the club looking for him. One of the guys there had been all too thrilled to tell Mickey that Ian had left with someone else, that Ian had looked happy about it, that he was setting out to have a good time that night. 

Mickey still remembered how it had felt to beat the shit outta that guy, he still remembered the way his eyes had stung and vision blurred because he was so angry he wanted to kill someone and he was so hurt he wanted to kill _himself_. 

_I came out for you_. He’d said as he kicked the guy that wasn’t Ian, the guy that hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it. _I came out for you_ because it had been the hardest, most honest thing Mickey had done in his entire life and Ian had went and _cheated_ on him. 

_I came out for you._

**From Mickey** : _Love means you’re loyal, Gallagher. Sposed to be fuckin’ loyal._

 **From Ian** : _I never said I loved you._

And Mickey’s heart shattered right there in his chest. 

**From Mickey** : _Yeah, I’m real fucking aware._

**************

The letter came later. 

> _– Fuck you, Gallagher_
> 
> _– You wanted me to come out, you wanted me to be your boyfriend and kiss you or whatever. You begged me to admit I loved you but you sure had no problem never saying it to me._
> 
> _– You cheated on me when we were trying to be a family. I got all domestic and all that shit and you would still rather go out and fuck old men. Figured you’d stop that once I got it together but you didn’t. Problem wasn’t me or us needing money or your fucking mess, you just didn't love me._
> 
> _– You told me you wanted me to be me, the south side fucking thug trash you fell for but what the hell does that mean? Wanna get high together and fuck? Want to get drunk and me pull down my pants enough to fit your dick and then push you away? Want me to threaten to cut your tongue out if you want a kiss?_
> 
> _–HOW IS ANY OF THAT BETTER THAN WHAT WE HAD_
> 
> _– I finally figured out how to give you what you wanted and then you didn’t want it anymore. Didn’t want me anymore._
> 
> _– I COULDN’T EVEN GET IT UP AFTER YOU RAN OFF TO THE ARMY AND I FUCKING TRIED. I tried women, I tried redheads, finally gave in after you left with fucking Monica and tried it with some fucking fairy ass twink but it was shit. It was shit and I blamed it on the alcohol so he wouldn’t know how fucking pathetic I was._
> 
> _– I know you didn’t love me cos if you loved me it would have been real easy for you to just come home. Every time you and I were apart it was real easy for me to come right back to you cos I loved you._
> 
> _– You didn’t love me and you can’t tell me you did._
> 
> _– fuck you_

******************

> _–Mickey_
> 
> _– They only had my body._
> 
> _–Just my body._
> 
> _–Not my heart and not my mind._
> 
> _– When I knew who I was and what the hell I was doing, I swear my heart and mind was yours_

************

 **From Mickey** : _Was it my fault?_

The text came an hour before sunrise and Ian rolled over in bed and squinted at the screen for a minute trying to make sense of the words. 

**From Ian** : _Was what your fault?_

 **From Mickey** : _Your break. Crack. Whatever the hell happened when you left for the army. Me and Svet and the wedding and not wanting to come out. My fault. I broke you?_

 **From Ian** : _What? No. No I guess the bipolar shit comes out around eighteen or nineteen anyway. I bet what happened with us didn’t make it better, but it wasn’t your fault, don’t think that._

 **From Mickey** : _Well was the dancing my fault? Made it seem like you couldn’t come to me when you got home again?_

 **From Ian** : _None of it was your fault, Mick._

 **From Ian** : _The drugs were easy and the dancing was easy and I needed something easy cos everything else was too difficult. I needed to control something of my life cos it felt like I couldn’t control anything._

 **From Mickey** : _Control_. 

**From Mickey** : _That’s why you told me I had to suck you off whenever you wanted if I wanted you to come back to the house after Svet made you leave._

 **From Ian** : _Well I mean… it was nice to have the upper hand for once._

 **From Mickey** : _The fuck does that mean, the upper hand?_

 **From Ian** : _You always had the upper hand with us. You picked where we met and when, how long it lasted and all that shit. Just once it was nice to think I caught you off guard, maybe I was making the rules._

 **From Mickey** : _Making the rules. I was trying to bring you home and you were worried about who was making the rules?_

The text sat on read for a long time before Ian got the courage to answer again, swallowing past the lump of guilt and the glaring reminder that he had been so fucking _blind_ to what Mickey had felt for so long. 

**From Ian** : _Mickey, listen_

 **From Mickey** : _The last time I had the fucking upper hand was when you snuck into my room with a goddamn crow bar or some shit. I threw you on the bed and pinned you down, then you got up into me and that was the last fucking time I ever had the upper hand._

 **From Mickey** : _You think I had any control?_

 **From Mickey:** _You had me fucked from day one Gallagher._

**************

“Ian?” Fiona paused halfway through the bedroom door and cocked her head at him. “What are you doing? Is that my hair spray?”

“Gotta look nice today.” Ian carefully carefully combed at his hair and then smoothed his shirt down. “Gotta go see Mickey.” 

“Did he ask you to come?” 

“No, no of course not.” He shook his head quickly. “I’m just going to show up. I paid Svetlana to stay home so I can see Mickey instead. I have to talk to him.” 

“…and tell him…?” 

“I’m tired of finding out that I saw things wrong between me and Mick.” Ian said bluntly. “Yeah we were kids, yeah we were both going through shit but I keep finding out that I had no idea how he felt and it makes me mad. Now I know, now he needs to know how _I_ feel.” 

“Ian–” 

“I’ve loved Mickey since I was fifteen.” he cut in and Fiona smiled a little bit. “And he thinks I didn’t, just like I didn’t think he loved me. It’s bullshit is what it is, so we’re going to get it sorted out today.” 

“Ian are you sure–” 

“I had a bad week last week.” he interrupted again. “And I sent Mick a whole bunch of texts giving him all sorts of shit for not loving me back when I needed him, for not being there for me like I wanted. I told him I would’ve done anything for him just to smile at me for real but all he ever did was push me away. You know what he said?” 

“What did he say?” 

“He told me that he would never let me run around sick, that he had never had a choice in loving me, that the last time he had the upper hand in anything was the first time we hooked up.” Ian watched Fiona’s eyes widen in the mirror. “ _Mickey_ said all that. Told me he knew I didn’t love him because I cheated and that even when he tried to cheat, he couldn’t really manage it. He loves me so much and I never once told him I loved him.” 

“So today I’m gonna go tell him I love him.” Ian shrugged, because it was suddenly the easiest thing in the world to say. “And that’s all there is to it.” 

“Alright then, good for you.” She watched another moment. “Why are you wearing your EMT uniform though? You aren’t working today.” 

“Oh.” Ian’s grin was half past ridiculous. “Mickey _loves_ how I look in uniform.” 

****************

Mickey would cut a bitch before admitting it, but he was looking forward to seeing Svetlana and the baby. 

Svetlana had gotten nicer after that first visit when Ian had come along, her words less cutting and her eyes a little softer every time she asked how he was doing. The baby seemed to recognize him a little bit more or that might just be cos Yev was interested in everything at this age, but his gummy smile made Mickey smile, and when Mickey smiled, so did Svet. 

When the guard told him he was up for visitors, Mickey even took the chance to run some water through his hair and at least wipe his face down. He wasn’t gonna pretty up for the damn woman, but at least this way she wouldn’t make some remark about him looking like a dog she’d leave behind or whatever else she muttered in Russian. 

But it wasn’t Svetlana sitting on the other side of the glass and Yevgeny wasn’t anywhere in sight, so Mickey sat down slowly, _uncertainly_ , and picked up the phone. 

“The fuck you doing here?” he asked after a minute. “Figured it was Svet and the kid.” 

“Is this okay?” _Christ_ Ian looked good up close, filling out the blue EMT ensemble in a way that brought Mickey’s uniform kink _roaring_ back to the surface. 

_He’d always been a sucker for Ian in uniform._

“I thought if I asked to come see you, you’d say no. Figured sneaking in was better.” Ian raised those fucking ginger eyebrows at Mickey as if daring him to disagree. “Was I wrong?” 

“Nah, I would’ve told you to fuck off.” Mickey sniffed and glanced away, hunched his shoulders a little and sniffed again. He felt _open_ , exposed and vulnerable after admitting so much through text and letters. It was one thing to say it all under the cover of dark and another to say it face to face, under unflattering lights and through too thin glass. 

It was open and sort of terrible and Mickey _hated_ it, but this close he could see that Ian was uncomfortable too, that he was fidgety and awkward and trying to choose his words carefully and maybe that made things a little less awful. 

_Upper hand, huh?_

“How’s the tattoo?” Ian asked then and Mickey grimaced, his hand automatically rubbing over the raised ink. “Does it still hurt?” 

“Not infected anymore.” Mickey hesitated, then hesitated again and then finally tugged the collar of his shirt down so Ian could see the hand done tattoo, the scraggly letters and that fucking misspelling. “Still looks like shit. When I get outta here I’m gonna get it removed, or get it done over or something. Don’t wanna walk around with this mess on me.” 

He was talking a lot, saying a _lot_ and saying it quick, eyes darting over to the guard, down the line of prisoners, over to the clock and then down at the cracked counter, anywhere except right into Ian’s green gaze. 

“It was a stupid idea.” he said more to himself than anyone. “Couldn’t even spell it right, didn’t do me any good cos you didn’t want to see–” 

“It’s beautiful.” Ian blurted, and Mickey’s mouth clicked shut with an audible pop. “Fuck, Mickey. It’s beautiful.” 

“… no it isn’t.” Mickey kept looking away, but then Ian murmured, “ _You’re_ beautiful.” and Mickey went very, _very_ still. 

“How have I never told you that before?” Ian was whispering now, big hand pressed flat to the window. “I never told you I loved you and I never said you’re beautiful?” 

Mickey popped his knuckles, leaned away from the window and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Shook his head and cleared his throat and shook his head again and _fuck_ what the hell was he supposed to say– why the hell was Ian talkin’ this sorta shit–

“You didn’t break up with me after my diagnosis.” 

“No.” Mickey felt like his voice was hoarse, like he could barely get the words out. “No, it took me a couple days to get my shit together but I showed up.” 

“You didn’t give up on me.” Ian inched closer to the window, curled his shoulders in and held the phone tighter so he could whisper into it. “You always came back.” 

“Y–yep.” 

“You wanted me to stay after the wedding, never wanted me to go but just couldn’t say it.” 

“What’s your fucking point, Gallagher.” Mickey didn’t mean to snap but he did anyway cos hell if he wasn’t shaking just _hearing_ Ian say this, just knowing fucking firecrotch actually knew that he had tried back then, he’d really really _tried_. 

“An MP put a gun on you and you still tried to get to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah I did.” Mickey finally looked up, finally met Ian’s gaze head on, finally quit being a pussy and let himself listen. “What about it?” 

“I love you.” Ian whispered, looking as fucking truthful as a damn alter boy. “And I’m sorry I haven’t said it until now.” 

“You broke up with me.” Bitter. _Savage_. Mickey hunched in too, not to be close but to hide, to disappear because all the sudden he wasn’t real sure he could handle hearing this. “You broke up with me, Ian.” 

“I thought I said it a bunch of different ways, but I guess I never did.” 

“I told you I loved you, and you laughed in my face. Said you didn’t know what that meant.” Mickey challenged. “I said I’d take care of you and you acted like it was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard!” 

“I know.” Ian nodded quickly. “I know. I’m sorry. I love you, Mick.” 

“You wouldn’t– you wouldn’t–” _Fuck_. “– you wouldn’t even look at me.” 

“I know.” 

“I said I was free with you and you said it wasn’t enough.” 

“I know.” 

“ _Fuck you_ , Gallagher.”

“Yeah.” Ian smiled and it had no business looking so damn adoring. “Yeah, I know. I love you.” 

Mickey had never felt so fucking _fragile_ in his life, and every bit of self help bullshit he’d learned in the last few months disappeared in a split second when he tossed the phone down and walked away from the window, away from Ian, away from all the things he couldn’t handle Ian saying. 

….guess now he understood why Ian needed to only talk about normal things, huh? Mickey didn’t realize how hard it was to hear– to hear–

– there was a letter on Mickey’s bunk when he got back, it must have been mail call while he was _not_ listening to Ian and now he had something to read. But no one ever wrote him except Ian so…

> _– Mickey_
> 
> _– I never knew ‘fuck you’ could mean ‘i love you’ until you said it._
> 
> _– You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life_
> 
> _– I love you_

“I love you too.” Mickey whispered to no one, said the words quietly quietly into the cell. “You’re under my skin man, nothing I can do.”

“…nothing I can do.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the story! Our boys get better at the communicating thing, and then Mickey does the 7X10 thing!

**From Ian** : _I want to be honest with you right now._

 **From Mickey** : _You tryna freak me out right now? Don’t start a conversation with ‘want to be honest’ that makes me feel like you’ve been lying or something._

**From Ian** : _No no, I haven’t been lying to you at all. I just wanted you to know that I stopped by Caleb’s to officially break things off with him. We never went past one date, but there’s no reason to even keep his number now. Or Trevor._

 **From Mickey** : _Trevor_. 

**From Ian** : _It’s a long story that doesn’t matter cos his number is gone. I just wanted you to know._

Mickey was suddenly _blindingly_ jealous, so jealous he had to put the phone down and dig his heel into his eyes just so he could breathe. _I just wanted you to know._ Mickey _knew_ alright, he knew Ian had been lying that first time when he promised to wait and that meant Ian had been free to fuck whoever he wanted but having names to put to faceless bodies was just— it was just–

_Fuck. He really was a glutton for punishment, wasn’t he?_

**From Mickey** : _Eh, keep them around. Might be good for a booty call. You only live once Gallagher._

 **From Ian** : _Did you just give me permission to sleep around?_

 **From Mickey** : _Didn’t know you needed permission for that sort of thing._

 **From Ian** : _You asked me to wait._

 **From Mickey** : _And you were lying when you said you would._

 **From Ian** : _Well I’m not lying this time._

 **From Ian** : _I love you Mick._

Mickey stared down at the words until his eyes went blurry, until it was too late and he had to hide the phone again for the day. 

_Love you, Mick._

Fuck, if he wasn’t starting to actually believe it. 

*************

> _– I miss the way you touch me._

The letter was unexpected, Ian hadn’t mentioned he was sending anything when they’d last talked a few days ago, and Mickey frowned when he felt the _weight_ of the envelope. Thick letters usually meant the redhead was having a hard time and _shit_ Mickey didn’t want Ian to shut down and stop talking to him again but it sure as hell was getting difficult to read page after page of _misery_. 

But it was from Ian and since Mickey had never stood a chance at saying _no_ , he curled up in his bunk and opened the letter, chewed at his lip anxiously as he unfolded the pages and–

> _–I miss the way you touch me._

> - _\- Miss the way you look up at me cos even though you hate being short you fit fuckin’ perfect in my arms. Miss how you kiss my forehead when you think I’m sleeping, I’m never sleeping, I feel every single one and I miss how you play with my hair when I wake up from bad dreams and the way you hold my hand when we’re in bed.”_

It went on for pages, rambling but not manic, disjointed but not scattered, line after line of all the little things Ian missed and all the little things he remembered about those too brief moments when things had actually been _good_ between them. 

Weird thing was– maybe the _best_ thing was– it wasn’t even horny. Ian wasn’t even horny he was just being sweet and talking about a million different ways he knew Mickey cared. And sitting there in his cell, Mickey bit at his lip until it bled so he wouldn’t get emotional about everything he hadn’t known Ian noticed, everything he hadn’t thought Ian cared about. He remembered every millisecond of whatever the fuck their relationship had been, every breath and smile and every goddamn kiss cos Mickey Milkovich had never thought he’d ever be so happy to kiss anyone in his life. 

He remembered them all.

And apparently so did Ian. 

> _– I miss the way you look back at me over your shoulder when I’m in you._

Okay, maybe the memories were a _little_ horny. 

> _– Like you’re checking to make sure I’m really there but then you smile and I get to kiss you and I miss how you always push me away after too long cos you actually wanna fuck not kiss but then at the end you always want another one._
> 
> _– Miss being able to hold your hand when I’m fucking you, you always let me do that, even before we kissed. It was like one tiny thing you’d let us have even though we kept pretending it didn’t mean anything._

Mickey remembered that specifically– that first time in his room when Ian shoved him up against the headboard and got him halfway to stupid with a first thrust, even _then_ Ian had tried to hold his hand and Mickey had let him. 

It was just holding hands, hadn’t meant anything but _oh_ he remembered how strong Ian’s hand had been even then, how much safer he felt with the whole thing just from their fingers being linked. He’d been so shaken up about it after that when Ian leaned in for a kiss, Mickey had snapped some bullshit about cutting his tongue out or taking his face off or some other violent _lie_ just so he wouldn’t falter and break and beg to be held. 

Yeah, Mickey remembered that _specifically_ … but it hadn’t ever occurred to him that maybe Ian remembered too. 

> _– I love you, Mick_

The letter ended the same way every conversation had lately, four words that had no right making Mickey’s chest seize up and his eyes water.

> _– I love you, Mick._

It was hours before Mickey could dig the contraband phone out and send a text, and he waited impatiently for Damon to fall the hell asleep and the guard to do the last rotation before messaging: 

**From Mickey** : _What’s next? You gonna get all stupid and nostalgic about looking at the stars in the dugout?_

 **From Ian** : _You don’t miss those days?_

 **From Mickey** : _I miss your dick in my ass._

On the other side of the conversation, Ian had to hide his laughter in his pillow. He was so damn glad that even after all this, somehow Mickey was still the _same_. 

**From Ian** : _Yeah, I miss that too._

 **From Ian** : _But you know what else I miss_

 **From Mickey** : _Guessin’ you’re gonna tell me cos no one’s ever been able to shut you the hell up_

 **From Ian** : _I miss the way you bit and lick at your lips._

 **From Mickey** : … _what_?

 **From Ian** : _Call it an oral fixation, right? You’re always touching your mouth with your thumb or putting your tongue at your cheek when you think– it drives me crazy. Makes me feel like I’m missing out on how good you taste or something._

**From Mickey** : …

 **From Mickey** : …

 **From Mickey** : _You think I lick my lips cos I like how I taste? That’s fuckin’ weird Gallagher_

 **From Ian** : _Yeah okay, I guess that sounded stupid_

 **From Mickey** : _Just stupid, man._

Ian hesitated a few seconds before starting to type a reply back, wondering if being called _stupid_ meant that Mickey didn’t want to keep talking or if it was just typical Milkovich deflection because he was feeling shy or–

_Bzzzzz_

Ian almost dropped the phone when it rang with Mickey’s number across the screen. “Oh holy shit.” he whispered, and hit answer before he could change his mind. “Mick?” 

“You like my mouth, Gallagher?” Mickey was whispering, almost inaudible so no one else would hear them. “That what you’re trying to say?” 

“Fuck, you know I like it. I love your mouth.” Ian rolled over face down into the bed, closed his eyes and _shuddered_ hearing Mickey in his ear. This was different than seeing each other through the glass, different than just texting. It sounded like Mickey was right there next to him in bed and his heart started pounding when Mickey sucked in an unsteady breath. “You– you still there?” 

“…I’m here.” 

“It’s nice to hear you this close.” he whispered. “Feels better than listening to you through some shitty prison phone.” 

“Huh.” Mickey huffed a short laugh. “Now you’re gonna tell me you gotta voice kink or some shit?” 

“I’m gonna tell you–” Ian swallowed, cos it was harder to be verbally honest but he’d been working on it through letters and texts and even with his crazy family, so Mickey deserved it to. “I’m gonna tell you it’s nice to feel like you’re laying here with me. I miss you.” 

Mickey exhaled all loud and sort of shocked and Ian could almost see the way Mick’s eyebrows would shoot up in surprise and those blue eyes would brighten right before he looked away and changed the subject. 

“I uh– I miss you too.” 

Holy shit, _there_ was some honesty Ian hadn’t expected and he jerked upright in bed to fumble for his charger, plugged his phone in so they could keep talking as long as possible. If Mickey was going to be _honest_ , Ian didn’t want to miss a single second. 

“Don’t hang up.” the second he was comfortable again, Ian grabbed the phone up tight and whispered, “Don’t hang up, Mick. I dunno how long you can talk and I had to adjust my meds so I might fall asleep, but don’t hang up, okay?” 

“I won’t hang up.” Mickey cleared his throat. “So uh– tell me about your fuckin’ crazy family. What’s Frank doin’ these days?” 

“You wanna hear about my family?” 

“I just want to hear _you_ , Ian.”

***********

Morning came all too early, and Mickey startled awake when the lights snapped on and the guards started yelling down at the end of the hall. 

“Oh shit.” He’d fallen asleep on the damn phone, the screen was smeared from laying on his face and he could feel the indent on his cheek from the edge of the case. But the call had never disconnected and he could hear Ian snoring on the other end and while Mickey wasn’t the sort to get sappy over early morning _anything_ , it was sorta nice to think they’d managed to sleep with each other all night. 

“Ian?” he muttered into the phone. “Ian, wake up, I gotta go. Wake up.” 

“Mmmm not yet, baby.” Ian’s voice was morning deep and rough and Mickey felt that _baby_ like a straight shot to his cock. 

“Ian.” he half whispered, half groaned and got another sleepy, “ _Babe_.” for his efforts. “Seriously man, wake up. I don’t wanna hang up on you but I gotta go.” 

Nothing but another snore, so Mickey raised his voice as loud as he dared and tried again, “Gallagher, what’d I tell you about calling me ‘baby’?” 

“Not to do it in public.” Ian mumbled, and then clearer and full on devilish, “But I know for a fact you come like a fire hose if I say it in bed.” 

“Like a fire hose.” Mickey breathed a laugh and wet his lips. “Alright sleeping beauty, quit talking about hoses and wake the hell up. I gotta get this thing hidden again.” 

“Call me again when you can.” Ian still sounded barely awake and it was doing all sorts of butterfly shit to Mickey’s stomach. “Please?” 

“Keep your phone on, fire-crotch.” 

“I will, I promise.” 

_I love you._ The words were right there on the tip of Mickey’s tongue, and he heard Ian’s breath quicken on the other end like the redhead was just _waiting_ –

“Bye, Ian.” 

“Bye Mick.” came the answering whisper. “Love you.” 

************

************

It was easier to whisper soft things in the dark, into the speaker when they could hear each other breathing, easier to be _honest_ when it was just them and the night listening. 

Mickey could only manage a call maybe once a week since he had to time it for when one of the more forgiving guards was on duty or when his cell mate was back in solitary or the infirmary, so Ian just kept his phone turned on and the ringer up constantly so he wouldn’t miss it. 

Sometimes Mickey called and it was super late or Ian had worked a double and was exhausted, so they lay there and listened to each other breathe till they fell asleep. Other times it worked out they could talk for a few hours and those nights Ian left the bedroom to sit in the kitchen until the sun came up, or sometimes even went outside if Frank or Fiona were sleeping off a hangover downstairs. 

“Tell me about the sunrise. There’s no damn windows in this place.” Mickey asked one morning at almost six am. He had to go soon, but they’d been talking all night and neither one was ready to hang up. 

“Sky’s just barely pink.” Ian yawned out loud and tried to get comfortable again on the ancient ass lawn chair he’d dragged from beneath the house. It was _freezing_ out and he was burrowed beneath a bunch of blankets, but it was worth being outside if it meant he could talk to Mickey uninterrupted. “Clouds are doing that weird streaky thing, you know? It’s cold as shit out here.” 

“Yeah, you could just sit in your damn kitchen like a normal person and not go outside to talk with me.” 

“I was trying to, but Frank came stumbling in at like three am, shouting about Debbie and something about lesbians and how at least one of his kids was gonna make it.” Ian shrugged it off. “I don’t know. Every time I think he can’t get any worse, he does.” 

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers, man.” Mickey laughed softly and Ian pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “You uh– you naked out there?” 

“Yeah right.” Ian snorted. “Like I’m gonna be butt ass naked around this house and neighborhood. Someone would be scarred for life. Gallaghers might be halfway to insane but everyone except for Frank realizes no one wants to see us naked, especially not in the cold. _Shriveled_ isn’t a good look on anyone.” 

Mickey laughed again, and Ian teased, “Besides, _you_ don’t sleep naked either.” 

“You don’t know that, I could be naked.” 

“No you couldn’t.” Ian shook his head when Micky made a confused noise. “You know how I know? When you’re naked, your voice changes. You get sorta shy and soft and quiet at first. I always have to kiss you to get you back to acting like a punk.” 

“You– you noticed that?” Mickey’s voice sounded a little odd. “Really?” 

“I noticed everything, Mick.” 

“You said your meds made you hazy.” Mickey accused, and Ian admitted, “Yeah. Yeah they did. And I missed a lot of things in the moment but afterwards I figured some out. I forgot a lot of the bad stuff, our fights and that sorta thing but I remember everything _important_.” 

“How my voice sounds naked is important.” Mickey sounded almost shy now. “Doubt it.” 

“Of course it’s fucking important.” Ian murmured. “Everything about you is important, Mick.” 

There was silence on the other end, but Ian could almost see Mickey rubbing a hand over his mouth, thumbing at the corner of his lip, getting that look like maybe he was gonna _bolt_. “You still there?” 

“I— yeah. I’m still here.” 

“Okay.” Ian breathed a sigh of relief and stretched back out on the chair. “Okay, keep talking to me.” 

***************

***************

 **From Mickey** : _What should I call you?_

 **From Ian** : _What do you mean?_

 **From Mickey** : _I mean you call me baby or some stupid shit, so what should I call you?_

Mickey was working hard at _saying_ things, at giving Ian some honesty for every time the redhead was brutally, awkwardly honest and it wasn’t necessarily easy but he was _trying_ okay? For the first time maybe ever they were both _trying_ and if all this went to shit again, it wouldn’t be Mickey’s fault, he didn’t want to feel guilty or like he’d pushed Ian away again so–

 **From Mickey** : _You got like– like a nickname you want me to call you?_

 **From Ian** : _It’s pretty cute when you call me bitch_

 **From Mickey** : _Fuck off, fire crotch_

 **From Ian** : _Yeah see? Cute._

 **From Ian** : _Why does it matter, I thought you said nicknames are gay_

 **From Mickey** : _Oh they fuckin’ are._

 **From Ian:** _So what does it matter?_

 **From Mickey** : _Come on. You don’t got some lovey dovey gay shit you want me to call you?_

 **From Mickey** : _I’m being serious, Ian. Really trying here. Tell me… something. Anything. I don’t give a fuck._

 **From Mickey** : _I mean, I do give a fuck but you know_

 **From Mickey** : _Jesus Christ I’m bad at this_

 **From Ian** : _You’re better than you think. You don’t need to call me anything. You say it all with your hands_

 **From Mickey** : _The fuck does that mean, my hands say ‘fuck u up’. Make some sense, Gallagher_

 **From Ian** : _What’s your favorite place to touch me when we kiss, besides my dick_

 _Honest, damn it._ Mickey thought to himself. _Honest_. 

**From Mickey** :… _just sorta right there on your cheek._

 **From Ian** : _Right. Even when we’re mad and kissing like we’re trying to break each others teeth you’re always soft right there. And the way way you tell me to ‘come here’ even though you’re already moving towards me like you can’t help yourself. I love that._

 **From Mickey** : _So what, I don’t slap you before we kiss and I order you around. That’s the same as me calling you something romantic_

 **From Ian** : _Isn’t it? Southside thug, you don’t need anything but that to tell me what you’re thinking, right?_

…and there it was, the first time ever that Mickey felt like maybe Ian understood him. 

**From Mickey** : _I gotta go._

 **From Ian** : _Kay. I love you._

_I love you too._

_I love you too._

_I love you too._

_Thank you for finally fucking seeing me._

**From Mickey** : _Bye_

************

************

“Oh my god, don’t stop talking to me.” Ian shoved his hand down his pants and palmed over his cock, rolled over into the bed and ground down into his mattress with a dirty groan. “Don’t stop baby, come on.” 

“Miss you up in me.” Mickey was whispering, panting into the phone, voice low and _filthy_ and Ian had never heard anything so hot in his goddamn life. “Shove me up into the wall and fuck me till I’m screaming. Pullin’ my hair and grabbing my ass and–” 

“Oh no no no.” Ian groaned out loud, eternally grateful no one was home and he could be as vocal as he wanted. “No baby, turn around so I can see you. Wanna do this face to face, wanna see you when you scream my name.” 

“Fuck.” Mickey bit out. “You’re so big, Ian. Gonna split me in half like that, can’t even breathe without feelin’ your cock in me.” 

“ _Oh_.” Ian made a punched out sort of noise, jerked at his cock until it was almost painfully hard, throbbing against his palm. “Oh oh oh _Mick_ , you’re so goddamn tight, love the way you clench up right before you come–” 

“– don’t wanna come till I can feel you fillin’ me up–” 

“ _Mickey_ –!” 

…. The phone call had gotten out of control _quick_. Ian was home alone, Mickey’s cell mate was back in solitary and the patrolling guard had been paid off with a little cash so it was as close to private as they’d ever get. The normal conversation had led to teasing, teasing had led to flirting and next thing they knew Mickey was admitting that he hadn’t fucked anyone since getting locked up and Ian had wanted to know how tight his hole was…

“I got it all over my fucking bed.” Mickey choked out a laugh and Ian moaned breathlessly into the speaker in agreement. “What the fuck, Gallagher? What was that all about?” 

“Dunno baby, you tell me you haven’t been fucked…” Ian could barely string two words together, much less manage sentences and whatever he was going to say garbled down into, “S’fuckin’hot’missyou…” 

“I was trying to tell you I was waiting.” Mickey corrected with a short laugh. “I’m waiting for you, Ian. Not fucking anyone, not letting anyone fuck me. Just you, yeah? You hear me?” 

“I hear you.” Ian wiped his hand down the sheet and held the phone tighter to his ear. “I hear you, I promise. Me too, Mick. I’m waiting too. So be on your best fuckin’ behavior cos eight years of only getting off over the phone is gonna be hell.” 

“I know.” Mickey still sounded shaky, thready, and Ian _ached_ with the need to hold him. They’d finally gotten to the point where Mickey would straight up demand to be cuddled after sex and then Ian had gone and screwed everything up and now… 

“I wish I could hold you.” Ian blurted. “Like I used to. I miss holding you, Mick.” 

And softly, because Mickey was either shouting his truth or whispering it and there was no inbetween– “I miss holding you too. Even miss being pushed around by you.” 

“I never should have pushed you.” Ian whispered thickly. “Not ever. Mick I’m so sorry–” 

“I like being pushed around by _you_.” Mickey interrupted. “Manhandled or– or pushed and pulled, whatever. It never felt bad, not like when anyone else put their hands on me. Even when you were sick and mad at me, it never felt like you hated me or anything it was just– we just suck at words, man.” 

“We do suck at words.” Ian waited a beat and then added, “I’m gonna wait for you Mick, I promise. I’ll be here when you get out. Eight years or fifteen years. I’ll be here.” 

“Not gonna ask you to wait eight fuckin’ years, Ian.” 

“You already asked.” Ian closed his eyes when Mickey swore under his breath. “And I already said I’d wait, so suck it Milkovich.” 

“Suck it.” Mickey repeated, grinning right through the words. “That an invitation?” 

“ _Jesus_ would you please get approved for conjugal visits?!” Ian pleaded, half teasing and half goddamn serious, his heart all but soaring when Mickey laughed at him. “Ah fuck, I miss you.” 

“Yeah. I miss you too.” 

“Love you, Mick.” 

“I–” _Hesitation_ , and Ian held his phone so tight he thought it might actually crack. “– Bye, Ian.” 

“Bye, Mick.” 

Mickey put the phone away just in time for the guard to come by with a warning that he was cutting it close, and when the doors clanged open an hour later to let everyone else for breakfast, he was still sitting there waiting for his cell mate to show back up from solitary. 

“You done with that shit?” he asked when Damon finally made an appearance. “Cos we’re never gonna get outta here if you keep that up. Stop fuckin’ fighting for one goddamn day so we have a chance to make this work!” 

“Don’t worry, I got everything taken care of on my end.” Damon grunted. “Need about a week for everything to line up on the outside, but we’ll know by Saturday. You ready?” 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Mickey shoved both hands into his hair and blew out a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” 

“You tell the redhead you’re coming for him?” 

“No.” he shook his head and screwed his eyes shut tight. “No, Ian doesn’t know yet.” 

“You think he’ll come with you?” 

“…I don’t know.” 

**************

**************

Ten days after the last phone call, Ian was sitting on the bottom step of the back porch steps scribbling out a letter to Mickey. 

Ten days was a long time to go without a phone call, in fact there had barely even been any text messages and Ian couldn’t shake the feeling that something was _wrong_ , that Mickey was hiding something from him which didn’t make any sense because they were finally being so _real_ with each other. Talking and laughing and yeah, Ian had about blown the tip of his dick off listening to Mickey groaning through the phone like that last time around, but more than that he was finally feeling like they were going to be okay. He was finally feeling like he could visit without Mickey getting mad, that maybe they were honest enough over phone and letters that now they could be honest face to face. 

But then Mickey had gone almost completely radio silent and Ian was worried. 

> _– I missed talking with you this week. Miss hearing your voice._
> 
> _– Did I do something wrong?_
> 
> _– You’re doubting me, aren’t you? I don’t blame you but I promise I mean every word I say_
> 
> _– Mickey, I love you and maybe you don’t believe me yet but_

His phone buzzed and Ian tossed away the pen and paper to grab it up. 

**From Mickey** : _What are you doing, Gallagher?_

 **From Ian** : _Writing you a letter, where have you been?_

“I’ve been around.” 

Ian froze, sure he was hearing things, sure he was hallucinating because there was no way he was _seeing_ …

“Mickey?” 

“Hey.” Mickey smiled at him from right there on the other side of the fence and Ian thought his heart would stop. 

_“Miss me?”_


	7. Chapter 7

“Mickey, what the hell are you doing here?” Ian whispered, not sure he even believed what he was seeing. “How did you get here?” 

“I always came back to you.” Mickey lit up a cigarette and took a deep pull. “Every single time.” 

“Wh–what?” 

“I always came back to you.” he said again, exhaling a plume of smoke and just as quickly taking another drag to calm his nerves. “I always came around and found you at the Kash and Grab, came looking for you out of juvie, hung out at the bleachers after school till you showed up. I _always_ came back to you.” 

Ian was quiet, confused and Mickey made a frustrated noise.

“Every time we had a fight I came back to you.” he insisted and Ian nodded slowly. “You left the army and I went to the Fairy Tale and brought you home, you went to your house, I came and found you. You told me I had to suck your dick whenever you wanted if I wanted you to come home and I did. I did that, Ian.” 

“Mickey.” Ian went hot with shame and _regret_. “I um–” 

“You went a little nuts and I called your phone two hundred different times trying to find you.” Mickey scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I uh– I admitted shit over a voicemail that I didn’t have the balls to say to your face yet.” 

Ian thought back to the voicemails he’d never deleted, the ones where Mickey said _I love you_ , the way his voice had cracked and the words had shook. “Yeah, Mick. You sure did.” 

“I walked you into that psych ward, even came back to visit you like it didn’t freak me the fuck out.” Mickey was talking faster now, the words spilling out one on top the other. “I was willing to kill that bitch Sammy for you, willing to take on the MP’s for you, and when you left with Monica instead’a me I thought I’d break but you know what?” 

Mickey’s throat jerked when he swallowed. “After all that you called me and I ran down this street like a goddamn pussy trying to get to you. What we had made me free, Ian. I felt trapped by a lot in my life but never by you. Even when what you wanted scared me, even when it switched and every time I took a step towards you, you took a step away. Like a goddamn idiot, I always come back to you. I am always here.” 

“I– I know.” Ian stood up slowly, hands help up placatingly, mind racing as he tried to figure out _how_ Mickey was here and what that meant and whether or not the sirens he heard all over the neighborhood earlier had anything to do with it. “You did all that, Mick. I remember.”

Mickey was quiet, _hard_ , jaw clenched like he didn’t want to say what he’d come to say, like now it was too difficult to talk when they were standing face to face and all the old hurts were bubbling up. 

“…What are you doing here?” Ian asked again. “How are you– why are you here?” 

“Why the fuck do you think?” Mickey sounded exhausted as he tugged at the buttons of his shirt and pulled the collar aside to show that mangled tattoo. “You’re under my skin, man. I can’t stay away. What th’fuck am I supposed to do?” 

It was a love confession. It was a plea for help, a plea for _understanding_ and Ian heard it loud and clear for the first time in his life. “Mickey–” he was moving immediately, shifting forward ready to talk or run to Mickey and kiss him or something, but Mickey put his hand up and shook his head. 

“I love you, Ian.” He said bluntly. “I love you and I’m not afraid to say it anymore. But this is the last time I’m sayin’ goodbye to you. Writing letters and fuckin’ texts or whatever and phone calls– that’s been fine, but I’m not doing it anymore. I’m done with this and I’m done saying goodbye, alright?” 

“What– what does that mean?” 

“I can’t stay here.” Mickey motioned to the noise of sirens in the distance. “Can’t stay in the state or the country so I gotta go, but I’m not gonna say goodbye to you again after this. Not gonna come back and do this again.” 

He was lying through his teeth– he’d always come back if Ian needed him– but he said it anyway, “I’m not gonna do this again, so tell me goodbye.” 

He swallowed hard, grimaced over the taste of grief and fear in his throat. “…tell me goodbye.” 

“No.” Ian realized what Mickey was saying in an instant, figured it out and was shaking his head, making up his mind before his mouth caught up. “This isn’t goodbye. No way.” 

“Tell me goodbye.” Mickey ordered, voice cracking with the effort and Ian kept shaking his head. 

“No. This isn’t goodbye. I need two minutes. Meds and–and money, but this isn’t goodbye.” Ian scrambled backwards up the steps, not daring to take his eyes off Mickey until he knew the brunette wouldn’t just disappear. “Two minutes. Wait. Wait for me, Mick.” 

Mickey only raised his eyebrows and Ian repeated, “Two minutes. _Wait_.” and bolted into the house, right past Fiona and up the stairs to his room. 

“Oh!” Fiona shrieked when he nearly knocked her over. “Ian? Ian!” 

“I don’t have time to talk to you.” Ian grabbed clothes out of his dresser and stuffed them into his backpack as fast as he could. “And I don’t want you to ask questions cos if the cops come around you shouldn’t have to lie.” 

“Right, like Gallaghers have ever worried about lying to the cops, what the hell are you doing?!” Fiona tossed Ian his favorite hoodie when he snapped his fingers for it. “Where are you going?” 

“Do you have my prescriptions?” Ian ignored her question as he shoved medication into one of the zippered pockets. “So I can get these refilled?” 

“…is it him?” Fiona asked softly, and Ian hesitated only a second before nodding. “Are you sure about this, Ian? There isn’t any going back, you know. Not from this.” 

“I know.” He straightened to his full height, jaw set and eyes sparking in defiance. “Do you have my prescriptions or not?” 

Fiona disappeared out of the bedroom and then reappeared a moment later, copies of his prescriptions in one hand and a pile of cash in the other. “Will you be safe?” 

“I will.” 

“And you’ll call?” 

“I’ll try.” 

“And you’ll–” she started and Ian interrupted, “Fiona. I gotta go. Two minutes is all I got.” 

Fiona opened her arms for a hug and Ian smiled, dropped his bag and held her close for a minute. “I’ll miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you too.” He bent to kiss a still sleeping Liam and patted at the boys back gently. “You’ll hug everyone else for me?” 

“Sure.” Fiona was trying hard not to cry, trying hard and utterly _failing_ and Ian hugged her one more time. “Love you, Bud.” 

“Love you, Fiona.” 

Bag packed and money in hand, Ian took the stairs three at a time downstairs, out the back door and right off the porch–

–”Knew you’d come.” Mickey met him halfway there, already running towards him, already yanking Ian in for a kiss. “–I _knew_ you’d come, come here.” 

Mickey kissed him like he was starving, like he was desperate, like he was drowning and Ian moaned low and heartbreaking and kissed Mickey right back with everything in his soul. 

“Where are we going?” he gasped when they broke for air, but Mickey was right back against his mouth, sucking at his tongue and brushing so gently at his cheek and Ian lost himself for another eternal moment. 

“Where are we going?” he finally asked again and Mickey shook his head, pushed their foreheads together and held onto his hand tight. 

“Does it matter?” Hoarsely, anxiously. “Does it matter where we’re going? Would it make this goodbye?” 

“No.” Ian breathed. “No, nothing is gonna make this goodbye. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, I love you. I love you.” 

“ _Then get in the fucking car_.” 

****************

****************

It was two days to the border, two days crammed in a car heading south trying not to look suspicious to law enforcement and only pausing for gas and snacks when strictly necessary. Two days of not talking because Damon was in the car with them too, two days of switching off driving so they didn’t have to stop, two days of Mickey looking over at Ian and Ian making sure he was looking back every single time because Mickey was starting to get _brittle_ again and Ian hated it. 

“C’mere.” he said the morning of the second day when Damon was passed out in the backseat and it was just he and Mick for a few hours. Mickey took his eyes off the road long enough to shake his head negatively, but Ian persisted, reaching across the space to twine their fingers and squeeze lightly. 

“C’mere.” he said again, coaxingly and almost teasingly, with a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure Damon was still snoring. “You haven’t kissed me since–” 

“The fuck you doin’.” Mickey snatched his hand back like it burned. “Don’t do that shit in front’a him.” 

Ian gaped at him in surprise, but then his jaw line tensed, shoulders squaring as he leaned away again. 

He got it. The kiss outside the house had been a moment of weakness and maybe a moment of truth but here in the car, here in front of Damon, Mickey had to be a Milkovich. He was brusque and closed off, snappish and irritable, chain smoking through pack after pack of cigarettes like he couldn’t breathe without him and Ian recognized every tic, every nervous sniff , every twitch and motion right down to the way Mickey kept flexing his fingers around the wheel, the black _Fuck U Up_ ink stark against his paler than usual skin. 

Mickey was back to being a Milkovich and it felt just like the old days–

–except Ian could see the stress lines at the corner of the bright blue eyes and the way Mickey’s gaze lingered even when he got annoyed and the way his tone wobbled just a little bit when he told Ian _no_. 

Mickey was so transparent, Ian couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen _everything_ before. 

“Okay.” Ian made himself relax, lowered his shoulders and slouched back in the seat, made sure he smiled so Mickey could see it. “It’s okay. We’ll wait. We got time now.” 

It was maybe the first time Ian had ever been willing to wait for anything, or at least that’s how it felt to Mickey. Ian hadn’t wanted to wait for anything– not that first kiss, not Mickey coming out, not to break up or make up or run away or fight like they’d done so many times. Over and Over. 

_Over and over and over._

It was almost familiar, sitting so close but still being so damn far away from each other. Ian was _right there_ , close enough to touch but he might as had been on the other side of the prison bars, other side of the prison glass for all Mickey felt like he couldn’t reach out. 

It was almost familiar and Mickey had thought about this moment right here forever but now that it was happening he couldn’t get over how different Ian was. 

The redhead had gotten big, maybe grew and inch or two, definitely packed on plenty of solid muscle and _damn_ Ian had looked good back when he was dancing but now he looked–well, Mickey couldn’t help one more look at the passenger seat. Now Ian looked incredible. He’d stopped waxing, cut his hair close and neat, he didn’t look cocky anymore he looked _confident_ and settled like he finally knew what he wanted and Mickey’s fingers flexed at the wheel again as he wondered if he was still what Ian wanted. 

If he’d _ever_ been what Ian wanted. 

The familiar tirade ran round and round in Mickey’s head. Maybe Ian had only wanted him in prison because it couldn’t happen, the same way Ian had wanted a relationship when Terry made it impossible, the same way Ian had wanted a boyfriend when Mickey wasn’t ready to come out. He’d never been enough for Ian, not when they were kids and Ian wanted kisses and love confessions, not when Mickey thought they were happy but Ian had been out cheating, not when Mickey was ready to make a home together and Ian turned him away. 

The letters, the texts, the phone calls, that damn _kiss_. Over and over Ian had said I love you but now that they were frustratingly impossibly close, Mickey was doubting everything all over again. Over and over until the headache from too many cigarettes bled into a full fledged migraine and suddenly he could barely keep his eyes open. 

“Whoa whoa.” Ian grabbed the wheel when they swerved, long fingers closing over Mickey’s for a quick second. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine.” Mickey cleared his throat and pulled over, brushed Ian’s hands away so he could twist back and smack Damon on the shoulder. “Your turn to drive. Get up.” 

“Make th’ginger drive.” Damon mumbled, and Ian only rolled his eyes but Mickey hit the guy even harder and snapped, “His name’s _Ian_ , fuck face. Now get the hell up and drive! I need to sleep.” 

“Fine fine fine.” Damon muttered something neither Ian nor Mickey caught but switched places into the drivers seat anyway and Ian tensed up when the sullen convict was suddenly just as close as Mickey had been, just as close and uncomfortably potent and undoubtedly _dangerous_. 

It was the sort of reminder Ian hated, the one that spelled out exactly how different he and Mickey were, how far their lives had come from those days in the walk in at the back of the Kash and Grab, how many obstacles they had to work through before anything went back to remotely normal. 

Obstacles like jail because Mickey was only there for going after Sammy after she’d turned Ian in to the MP’s. That’s why Mickey had spent a year in jail and met someone like Damon. Because of Ian. 

The visor in the stolen car was hanging off its hinge and almost fell right off in Ian’s hand as he pushed it down so he could watch Mickey sleeping in the back seat, the mirrored image blurry but still enough to watch Mickey’s chest rise and fall with each breath and Ian’s stomach clenched with the need to just crawl right back there and wrap his arms around him. Back when they’d been texting and calling it had seemed like Mickey would welcome being held and now that Ian could see the stress in Mickey’s brow and the way his hands clenched even has he tried to relax… 

…well shit. _Shit_ Ian sort of wanted to kick Damon right out of the car so Mickey would chill out and smile at him. 

Desperate for something to do with his hands and to keep his mind off the suffocating silence that took over once Mickey was out cold and Damon shut the music off, Ian opened the glove box and rifled through the contents idly, checking names on insurance, old oil change receipts, unfolding a worn map to plot a route the previous driver may or may not have taken. 

It took all of ten minutes to get through everything in the box and with the prospect of hours of tense silence and empty desert stretching ahead of him, Ian muffled a groan and started back at the beginning again. 

But this time something new caught his eye, a crumpled napkin shoved way back in the far corner of the glove box and Ian reached for it curiously. He wasn’t in the habit of picking up dirty napkins especially not after working as an EMT and coming across all sorts of _nasty_ on wadded up napkins, but he could see scribbles of what looked like Mickey’s handwriting so with a quick glance to make sure Mickey was still sleeping and Damon was watching the road, Ian grabbed the napkin and smoothed it out on his thigh. 

_–I always came back to you._

It was a letter, written on a fast food napkin in shaky, loopy letters like Mickey had been in a rush to get it all out. 

_– Came and got you at the Kash and Grab. Juvie. School. At the fuckin’ faggot club._

_– I always came back to you._

_– I can’t say goodbye to you anymore Ian._

It was a letter, almost word for word what Mickey had said the other night at the house. The voice mails, the psych ward, the love confession and the repeated, ‘ _I can’t say goodbye again’_

And there at the bottom–

– _Want you to come with me but I know you’ll say no. You should say no. You need more than a thug and a life on the run. I’m not gonna fuckin’ ask you and give you a chance to say no to me again, I can’t handle hearin that_

_– you should say no though._

_~~– Fuck Ian, please come with me.~~ _

It was a _letter_ , and Ian realized in a wash of cold dread that Mickey was going to just mail it to him, maybe just drop it off at the Gallagher house and never say a word, maybe not even let him know they’d broken out of jail and were on the run. 

A letter and probably the last one Ian would ever get, because Mickey had figured out a way to break out of prison but was so scared of Ian turning him away again that he’d planned to just walk away. 

_I always came back to you._

Ian closed his eyes and felt his heart shatter right there in his chest. 

Mickey always came back to him, even when he was sure Ian would say no.

_I always came back to you._

_Jesus, Mick._

*************

*************

“I gotta take a shit.” Damon pulled over at a gas station hours later, the first place they’d seen in ages that wasn’t a hole in the wall. This one had multiple pumps, a name brand on the door and in the adjacent parking lot was a restaurant and a bank branch. 

“This is the nicest place till across the border so wake Mickey up and go get some food.” Damon stuffed some of the cash from the ash tray into his pocket. “Last stop till we cross, so do what you gotta do, huh?” 

“Sure sure.” Ian didn’t move, the napkin/letter folded into his palm and knuckles white from holding on to it so tight. The bank across the way was the same branch he used back home and he had an ideas, he had an idea, he had an idea–

– “Ian.” Mickey jerked in the back seat, called out for Ian in his sleep. “Ian–!” 

“Hey hey, I’m here. I’m here.” Ian clambered awkwardly over his seat and nearly fell onto Mickey as he went. “Mick, I’m right here, don’t– don’t worry.” 

He was kissing Mickey before he thought about it, crushing their lips together and burying his fingers into the spiky hair. “Mick, I’m here. I’m here.” 

“Oh fuck, you’re actually here.” Mickey sounded like he might be close to tears, but it didn’t stop him from kissing Ian back, loud and desperate, leaving bruises at Ian’s waist, at his shoulders, as he grabbed the redhead tight. “You’re here?” 

“Yeah baby, I’m here.” Ian pushed Mickey’s leg off the seat and crowded in to the vee of those pillow soft thighs, scraped his nails across Mickey’s scalp and down his back until the brunette arched up with a hungry groan and shoved his tongue into Ian’s mouth. “Fuck Mick, come on. Come on.” 

Ian grabbed at Mickey’s waist and yanked him closer, hissed over the scrape of his zipper when Mickey rocked up against him and his cock _throbbed_ in his pants. 

“You’re here.” Mickey kept mumbling, the kiss stretching longer and sloppier until neither boy could breathe and Ian was rutting unabashedly into Mickey’s body, halfway to climbing up the seat just so he could get Mick under him. “ _Ian Ian Ian–”_

“I’ve missed you, Mick.” Ian panted into his ear, closed his teeth at Mickey’s lobe and tugged just enough to make him curse. “Missed you. Gotta get in you, can’t wait any more, come here.” 

Mickey shoved a hand between their bodies so he could grope at Ian, palm at his own dick, desperate for some relief. “Ian we gotta– we gotta keep goin. Gotta get to the border so we can–” another curse when Ian latched onto his pulse and worried at the tender skin. “Shit. _Ian_.” 

“Gotta get in you.” Ian whispered. “I miss you, miss you, c’mere and let me–” 

“HEY!” A bang on the side of the car and they both jumped. “Don’t do that shit in there, I gotta still drive with you!” 

It was Damon, back from getting snacks and unscrewing the gas cap to tank up, bitching about the two of them in the back seat, bitching about the length of the drive, bitching about how long it had been since he’d had his dick sucked by someone other than–

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey was out of the car before Ian, stretching and popping his knuckles like he hadn’t been thirty seconds from coming in his shorts just from the feel of Ian pressed up against him. “You need to get blown so bad, go get it done. Gotta be a whore around here somewhere, right?” 

Damon glanced over towards where a row of semis were parked on the far end of the gas station, and Ian actually _grimaced_ thinking about being in the same car again after Damon got sucked off by one of those whores. _Shit, the guy smelled bad enough already._

“Ian.” Mickey was still breathing hard, his blue eyes practically glowing at him over the hood. “Damon’s gonna get lost for a little bit. You uh–you need anything?”

Ian glanced over at Damon sort of sideways meandering towards the truck stop, then over at the restaurant and bank. “Yeah, I uh– I need a minute. I’ll be right back.” 

“You’ll be right back.” Ian had almost forgotten how incredulous Mickey could sound and look with nothing more than a flat tone and a quick rub at his eyebrow. “Seriously? Where the hell are you doing? He’s not gonna be around for at least fifteen minutes, we got time to–” 

“Damon doesn’t really want us doing that sort of thing in the car.” Ian huffed a laugh when Mickey’s brows shot up towards his hairline. “I’ll be right back. Wait for me.” 

“Fuck man, all I do is wait for you.” Mickey said under his breath and Ian hurried around the car to lay a quick, searing kiss on his lips. “Fuck off.” Mickey blushed and pushed him away, but Ian came back for another one just because he could. “I said fuck off!” 

This time the push was harder but it was still teasing, almost gentle and Ian had a sudden flash back to when Mickey had headbutted JimmySteve’s dad and they had ran _together_ , pushing and shoving and laughing and then kissing and falling into each other and the way Mickey had looked when Ian chose _him_ instead of the other guy. 

“Beautiful.” Ian came back again, slid his fingers into Mickey’s hair again and kissed him _again_ because he hadn’t done that enough ever and because every time he didn’t, every second that passed between what had happened in the back seat and what was happening now, Mickey withdrew a little more, turned a little more Milkovich in light of anyone who might be watching. “You’re always beautiful when I kiss you, Mick.” 

Rolled eyes was exactly the reaction he expected, and Ian grinned over them. “I’m gonna be right back.” He said and Mickey nodded slowly, reluctantly. “I need two minutes. That’s it. Two minutes.” 

*************

Alright, it was a little over two minutes, but Damon wasn’t back yet and Mickey was still propped up against the hood when Ian left the bank and jogged to the car. 

“You ready?” He asked, already climbing into the passenger seat and leaning over to open the other door. “Come on, let’s go.” 

“Damon’s not back yet.” Mickey pointed out and Ian snorted, “Fuck him. Let him get his truck stop blowie and you and me get out of here.” 

“You and me?” Mickey sat down and turned the car on but didn’t shut the door. “Just us?” 

“Just us.” Ian pulled out the envelope from the bank, a wad of cash that was every cent he’d had in his savings account. “I’ve been working, Mick. Saving up for something big and this seems like something big, right?”

“…right?” 

“So I got the money and closed my account.” Ian waggled his eyebrows knowingly, hoping to coax a smile from the brunette. “Figure there’s no branch down in Mexico, right?” 

“Right.” Mickey pursed his lips, chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Ian–” 

“At some point we’ve gotta stop and talk.” Ian interrupted, his heart in his throat as he unfolded the napkin letter so Mickey could see it, then threw it right out the window into the gas station trash can. “But for right now, let’s just go. Let’s just go.” 

“You and me?” Mickey asked, eyes darting from the trash can and back to Ian. “Yeah?” 

“Just you and me.” Ian repeated firmly. “Let’s go.” 

“We can talk later?” 

“ _Later_.” 

“You and me.” Mickey threw the car into gear and spun the tires out against the asphalt as they took off out of the parking lot. “You know that’s what kept me goin’ in the joint? Thinking about Mexico, the beach… _us_.” 

“I know.” Ian reached for Mickey’s hand and this time the brunette didn’t pull away. “We’re almost there.”


	8. Chapter 8

The hotel was shitty at best, the bed one that most likely vibrated at some point but now was years past even having working springs. Ian’s weight sank the mattress damn near to the floor and he knew when Mickey came back and crawled in next to him–

– _hopefully_ crawled in next to him–

–they’d end up sleeping on the gross carpet. 

Oh well. It didn’t matter so long as they were together. 

“Lazy ass.” Mickey came back through the door with arms full of food and drink. “I’m out here busting my ass to feed you and you’re sleeping?” 

“I don’t think anyone has ever slept on this bed _ever_ , Mick.” Ian propped up on an elbow and looked his boyfriend over. “Besides, I don’t speak Spanish.” 

“That’s a goddamn lie.” Micky tossed the food down on the other bed, and kicked his shoes off before sprawling out next to Ian. “I know you speak Spanish. At least well enough to get some food. I got us over the border, you should start pulling your own weight.” 

“But you’re so pretty bringing me stuff to eat.” Ian countered, and Mickey flicked him in the head with a resounding, “Fuck you, Gallagher.” 

“C’mere and _I’ll_ fuck you.” Ian dragged Mickey up over his body and pressed their mouths together, smoothed his hands down Mickey’s back and rubbed into him purposefully, _pointedly_. “Should use the bed for somethin’ right? And you did such a good job gettin’ us over the border maybe I should reward you.” 

“Yeah, cos walking with a limp for the next two days is a reward.” Mickey rolled his eyes, then rolled himself off of Ian and to the edge of the bed, feeling around in his coat pocket for a cigarette. “Besides I told you, getting across the border is easy when you know as many people as me. A little money, some drugs, whatever it takes to make someone look the other way. Easy.” 

“I couldn’t’ve done it.” Ian countered, and Mickey snorted, “That’s cos you can’t lie worth shit. You start blushing and getting stupid. Just be cool for once in your life.” 

“Be cool?” Ian sat up and tried to wind an arm around Mickey’s waist, tried to tug him back close again. “Mick, come here. I’ve been waiting to hold you since we ditched Damon, come on.” 

Mickey didn’t answer, just got off the bed all together and went to the window to light up, and Ian watched him for a minute, brow furrowed in confusion. “Baby?” 

“Fuck, I hate when you call me that.” Mickey dragged in on the cigarette, pushed the heel of his hands into both eyes as he exhaled. “Don’t call me that.” 

“You love it, and you know it.” Ian got off the bed too, followed Mickey over to the window and took the cigarette right out of his hands. “What are you doing way over here? 

Mickey just looked at him, then looked away. Stared out the window for a second, then back at Ian and then over to the floor. He shifted on his feet, sniffed and thumbed at his nose and cleared his throat–

– and Ian knew they had to do it _now_. They had to talk right now before they got any further away from the border, before they got to the beach and to the _us_ Mickey had thought so long about. They had to talk _now_ or they’d always wonder, _Mickey_ would always wonder and Ian knew that this time he had to say it _all_ so Mickey wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. 

“Okay.” Ian whispered, soft and open and as understanding as he’d ever tried to be. “Okay Mickey. Let’s talk. Ask me.” 

“Ask you what?” Mickey spat and _Christ_ , he was angry again, angry like he always used to be but now Ian knew the anger was a cover for the loneliness, the quick temper a cover for the fear, so it was okay. 

_It was okay._

“Ask me um–” Ian swallowed, hunched his shoulders so he wasn’t quite so big over Mickey. “Ask me if I waited for you while you were in prison.” 

“Did you–” Mickey sniffed again. “Did you wait for me while I was in prison?” 

“I tried to date.” Ian said honestly, and he didn’t try to stop Mickey from flinching away. “Trevor was great, but just not for me. Dunno if it was the transgender thing– I don’t wanna say it was, but I’m not real sure. Either way, it didn’t work out and I didn’t really try. Caleb– I think that one was Dead on Arrival. But once you and me started writing… yeah, Mick. Yeah, I waited for you and I was gonna keep waiting for you.” 

“Did you… miss me?” 

“Every fucking day.” Ian didn’t hesitate on that one. “Missed you when I was working, whenever I’d see some punk kid mouthing off, every time I went to bed. Even on the few dates. I missed you cos you were in every part of my life and then one day, you weren’t.” 

Mickey was quiet and Ian prodded, “Ask me if I looked forward to your letters, Mick.”

“Ian, I don’t–” 

“Ask me if I slept with my phone ringer on loud right under my pillow so I’d know when you texted me.” He continued. “Ask me if I stayed up way too late talking to you and then got in trouble the next day at work for being half asleep. Ask me if somehow my stupid fuckin’ family finally made me see how much I love you. Ask me if I regret every time I tried to force you to come out, to be like me, to be _with_ me when you weren’t ready. Ask me if I finally realize that you and I were fucking kids that couldn’t help our families and our situations and our pasts and all the crazy we inherited. _Ask_ me.” 

“Ian–” 

“Ask me if I’m free with you.” Ian was whispering now, budging close and touching their foreheads together, tossing the cigarette away so he could push both hands into Mickey’s hair and pull him in tight. “Ask me if I’m free with you, Mick.” 

“…are you free with me?” Nearly inaudible, shaking and _terrified_ and Mickey closed his eyes tight like he couldn’t bring himself to look and see the truth in Ian’s eyes. “Does what we have make you free?” 

“Mickey Milkovich.” Ian rubbed his thumbs over Mickey’s cheekbones and whispered, “Right here with you is as free as I’ll ever want to be.” 

“…promise?” _Vulnerable_ , and it broke Ian’s heart. “Cos the border is right there, man, you could just–” 

“I promise.” Ian swore, cut him off and swore again. “I _promise_. I’m right here, Mickey. Not going anywhere. What you and I have makes me free. I wish I would’ve known that meant _I love you_ when you said it the night of Yev’s christening. Wish I would’ve known what you were saying, but I know it now, alright? I’m free as I’ll ever be with you, and I love you and I’ll wait–” he nodded when Mickey’s brow scrunched. “–I’ll wait until you’re ready to say it, alright? I can wait.” 

And then softer, “Back when we were kids, I asked Mandy how to tell if a guy liked me and she said I’d know if he got that look in his eye.” 

He laughed quietly, “Fuck, Mickey I stared at you all the damn time trying to see if it was there in your eyes and I missed it a thousand times. I won’t miss it this time, okay? I promise. I see it. I see _you_.” 

Mickey’s jaw worked like he was trying to speak but the words didn’t quite come, so instead he put his hand just gentle on Ian’s face like he knew the red head liked, brushed through a few strands of shaggy hair and muttered, “Free, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Ian turned into Mickey’s hand and kissed his palm gently. “So why don’t we go find something _else_ that makes us free, huh?” 

“I’d rather find your dick.” Mickey finally managed some snark, and Ian sighed over loud at having the romantic moment spectacularly derailed. 

“Jesus, Mick. Moment ruined much?” 

“Just shut up and kiss me again, Gallagher.” 

***********

_Mexico_

_The Beach_

_Somewhere That Doesn’t Matter So Long As They’re Together_

“I’m just saying I feel like you could have told us you weren’t coming back!”

Lip was _pissed_ , and Ian held the phone away from his ear for a minute while his brother vented. “Lip.” he said when there was finally a break in the tirade. “Lip it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m happy. We’re happy.” 

“Well are you at least taking your goddamn meds?” 

“Yeah, yeah I can get them real cheap down here. The good stuff.” Ian checked his watch just to make sure the timer was set for his next round. “Everything’s fine, Lip. Stop worrying.” 

“Stop worrying? Ian–!” 

“Kiss everyone for me.” 

“IAN!” 

“Bye Lip.” 

Ian put the phone away and took a drag at his cigarette, glanced up just in time to watch Mickey come out from the water, shirtless and gorgeous and blue eyes brilliant against all that tan skin and _fuck_ Ian loved him so much he could hardly stand it. 

“Hey firecrotch.” Mickey had a new tattoo at the base of his neck, and Ian’s hand automatically found it when the brunette bent to give him a kiss, same way Mickey’s fingers instinctively brushed over the matching tattoo scrolled at Ian’s cheekbone— _Free_. 

“Hey beautiful.” Ian rumbled and Mickey laughed and pressed close again. 

They reveled in slow kisses now that they were _free_ , lingered over soft moments and smiled into each others eyes without worrying that anyone would see or that anyone would care. Ian remembered begging Mickey for kisses when they were kids, Mickey remembered being so damn scared about getting caught but now? 

Now every embrace was slow and tender and they took their time because now they _had_ time. 

“You ready for a swim?” Mickey asked when they finally parted. “Ready to stop blinding the population with your pasty ass and try for a tan?” 

“Yeah Mick.” Ian ignored the pasty ass comment and stripped his shirt off, followed his boyfriend down the beach. “I’m ready for anything with you.” 

************

They got married with their feet in the water, Mickey’s blue eyes glowing like the ocean, Ian’s skin almost as red as his hair because he couldn’t tan to save his life. 

“I, Mikhalio Milkovich, take you Ian Gallagher to be my lobster.” Mickey said solemnly, and the priest squawked in alarm when Ian picked Mickey up and just chucked him into the waves, tackled him down and held him under water until Mickey screeched _Uncle_ and promised to do it right. 

“I Ian Gallagher, take you Mickey Milkovich.” Ian was still laughing as he brushed water from Mickey’s hair and fit a simple golden band to his finger. “To have and to hold, to love until death do us part, and to finally fucking be free together.” 

_Kiss your groom._

“Come here.” Mickey said, but Ian was already halfway there, unable to wait a single minute more to kiss his husband, big hands in Mickey’s hair then down to frame his face, then further down to cover the place where his name was written across Mickey’s heart.

“I love you.” Ian murmured, and Mickey whispered back, “Fuck, I love you too.” 

“You wanna go get drunk and have beach sex?” Ian suggested and Mickey laughed out loud over the priest’s expression and grabbed his husbands hand to race away down the beach. 

They ran away together just like they had when they were kids, except this time they weren’t hiding, this time they were holding hands and shouting about being married and bumping in close to kiss over and over and over–

– their wedding bands glinting gold like _freedom_ in the sun. 


End file.
